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THE   OLD   CLOCK   ON    THE   STAIRS.."  — Tage  ill. 


FAVORITE  POEMS, 


SELECTED   FROM 


ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 


NEW  YORK: 
THOMAS    Y.   CROWELL    &    CO. 


Copyright  by 

Thomas  Y.  Cuowell  &  COo 

1S83  AMD  1884 


'?.V^  - 


£  PREFACE. 

M 

J  ^i&io<. 


It   has    been    the    object  of  the    compiler,    in    Issuing 
this  volume,  to  unite  a  collection  that  will  afford  a  well- 
-      selected  variety    for    the    lovers   of   poetry,    and   form_  an 
J,      appropriate  present  for  all  seasons  and  occasions.     Most 
>■     of  the   selections   are  the  brightest   gems   from   American 
"^     and  English  authors,  and  will  live   as   long  as   a  love  of 
the  beautiful  and  the  true  spirit  of  poetry  And  an  abiding 
place  in  the  human  heart.     It  is   submitted  to  the  pub- 
lic, with  the  hope  that  it  will  be  found  to  be  an  accept- 
able gift. 

o 


280303 


CONTENTS 


PAOK 

The  Spoils  of  Time Slialcspeare    .    .    .    ,  17 

Manfred's  Soliloquy Byron 20 

Joy  AND  Sorrow Heclderiinck    ....  21 

Music  of  Nature Pierpont 22 

Remembrance Southey 23 

The  Deserted  Village Goldsmith 25 

Evening Milton 27 

The  Daffodils IForclsuvrth  ....  28 

Domestic  Love Croly 29 

Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Church- 
yard      Gray  . 30 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore      .    .    .     IFolfe 35 

Youth  .    .    .    • Scott 36 

The  New  Year Willis 37 

Forest  Hymn Bryant 3S 

Man's  Life Crabbe 39 

Lycidas T.  B.  Aldrich     ...  40 

'Tis  A  Little  Thing Talfourd 41 

Night Southey 42 

The  Snow  Storm Emerson 43 

A  Prayer  in  the  Prospect  of  Death    .    Burns 44 

Halloween Burns 45 

When  I  am  Old Caroline  A.  Driggs     .  55 

The  Revellers Mrs.  Hemans  ....  57 

Practical  Charity Crabbe 59 

The  Faithful  Dog Mrs,  Sigourney  ...  60 


CONTENTS. 


Exhortation  to  Courage Shaksjyeare  ....  61 

Country  and  Patriotism Bailey 62 

TiiK  Old  Home Tennyson 68 

Kature Young 64 

Found  Dead Albert  Laigliton    .    .  65 

Only  a  Year Mrs.  H.  B.  Stowe  .    .  6C 

J^oNG  Life Kennedy 68 

Press  On Park  Benjamin     .    .  69 

Proposal Bayard  Taylw     .    .  70 

Raphael's  Account  of  the  Creation     .    Milton 71 

Darkness Byron 73 

The  True  Aristocrat Stewart 76 

The  Ship Southey 77 

The  Old  Man  by  the  Brook Wordsworth      ...  78 

The  Bride Mrs.  Siyourney     .    .  79 

Marmion Scott 81 

The  World's  Wanderers Shelley 84 

Speak  Gently Anon 85 

Waning  Spirit Bailey 86 

Morning  among  the  Hills Percival 87 

The  Death  Bed Hood 89 

My  Darling's  Shoes Anon 90 

The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night    ....    B^mis 91 

Hamlet's  Soliloquy Shakspeaj-e  ....  98 

Happiness Keble 99 

The  Trumpet Mrs.  Hemans    .    .    .  100 

Ode  on  Cecilia's  Day Dryden     .    .    .    „    .  101 

Skater's  Song Anon 103 

On  Lending  a  Punch  Bowl  .    .    .    .    .    .  O.  W.  Holmes  ...  104 

Song T.  B.  Aldrich   ...  107 

A  Canadian  Boat  Song Moore 108 

The  Lost  Mexican  City McLellan      ....  109 

The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs     ....  Longfellow   ....  ill 

HEALING  of  the  Daughter  of  Jairus    .     JVillis 113 

The  Seasons Qrahame 118 

The  Seasons Thomson 119 

Wedding  Gifts Tupper 12C 


CONTENTS. 


Being  Flowers J^I's.  Hcmans     „    .    .    121 

Solitude nijmn 122 

For  a'  that  and  a'  that Burns 12J 

Knowledge  and  Wisdom Coirper 124. 

November Bryant 125 

The  Primrose  of  the  Rock          ....  Wordsworth  ....    126 

Over  the  River Nancy  A.  W.  Priest .    128 

"Fall  of  the  Indian" McLellan 130 

When  I  am  Dead Emma  A.  Browne  .    ,    131 

Our  Colors  at  Fort  Sumter Aklrich 132 

Two  Hundred  Years Plerpont 133 

One  Heart  's  enough  for  Me Augusta  Mignon    .    .    13-t 

Address  to  the  Comet Anon.    ......    135 

To  A  Poet  who  died  of  Want     .    .    .    .  L.  Filmore     ....    137 

Woman's  Love Anon 138 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs Hood 139 

The  Poet  Dreamt  of  Heaven      ....  Anon.    ......    143 

On  the  Sea Bayard  Taylor.    .    .    144 

The  Soul Addison 145 

The  Prayer  of  Nature    ......    Byron 146 

In  Reverie H.  AfcEtven  Kimball .    148 

The  Tempest James  T.  Fiel'h     .    .    149 

From  "The  Princess" Tennyson  .    .    ^    .    .    150 

Joe Albert  Laighton     .    .    151 

The  Dying  Alchemist Willis   ...:..    153 

The  Pleasures  of  Hope Campbell 157 

June Bryant 158 

The  Village  Preacher Goldsmith     ....    159 

He  Lives  Long  who  Lives  Well     .    .    .    Randolph 161 

Fair  Ines - Hood 162 

The  Graves  of  a  Household Mrs.  Hemans     ...    164 

L7FE Anon 165 

The  Opening  of  the  Piano Atlantic  Monthln  .    .    166 

The  Beautiful Burringfon    ....    168 

The  Baby A7wii 163 

To  a  Friend Daniel  A.  Di-own  .    .    17fl 

Effect  of  Oratory  on  a  Multitudb     ,  Crolu    ....    i    .    171 


10  CONTENTS. 


The  Raven Edgar  A.  Poe    .    .    .    172 

Plkasures  of  Memory ^fore 178 

Reflections Crabbe 179 

The  Serenade Shelley 1?3 

Health E.  C.  Pinckney .    .    .    184 

To  the  Portrait  of  one  "  gone  before,"    A.  M.  Dutterjield  .    .    185 

Angel  of  the  Rain H.  McEicen  Kiviball .    0-6 

Worldly  Treasures BaileT/ 187 

The  Death  of  the  Flowers    .....    r>ryant 188 

The  Aurora  Borealis If-  E.  Gould  ....    190 

New  ENf>LAND Anon 191 

The  Pity  of  the  Park  Fountain   .    .    .     IVilHs 192 

March  of  the  Rebel  Angels Milton 193 

The  Sagamore B.P.  Shillaher.    .    .    194 

The  Beauties  of  Nature Burns 195 

The  Famine Longfdloio    ....    196 

The  Lady  of  the  Earl Anon 202 

MIGKON  aspiring  TO  HEAVEN Goetlie 204 

The  Hope  of  an  Hereafter Camiibell 205 

All  is  Vanity,  saith  the  Preacher  .    .    Byron 206 

On  a  Tear Uogcrs 207 

The  Life  Clock Anon 208 

Know  Thyself ^'^'"s-  Sigourm-y .    .    .  210^ 

O,  NOT  BY  Graves 'f^-  ^-  Wallace  ...  212 

Something  Cheap Charles  Swain  ...  213 

Sweet  Remembrances -Vo''« 214 

Charity A»on 215 

Reliance  on  God Casket 216 

The  Goblet Bayard  Taylor .    .    .  218 

The  Flowers ^^<?"'7/  ^a'^on     . 

The  Day  is  Done Longfellow     .    . 

Thoughts Bailey  .... 

The  Silent  Multitude ^Irs.  Hemons     . 

A  Vision <•  -l^-  ^ 22C 

lost -''""« 22- 

The  Picket  before  Bull  Run      ....    John  William  Day    .  229 

The  Song  of  Seventy Tupi)er 231 


221 
223 

224 
225 


CONTENTS. 


11 


Good  and  Better Anon 233 

Building  upon  the  Sand Eliza  Cook    ....    234 

Remembrance Percival 235 

Dedication  of  a  Schooluouse     ....    Miss  Loiiisa  Simes     .    236 

The  Angels  in  the  House  .......    Anon 237 

The  Province  of  Woman Hannah  More    ...    238 

Woman's  Four  Seasons Bailcij 230 

JNIAUD  MuLLER WhUticr 240 

How  to  Live Bryant 244 

Advertisement  of  A  Lost  Day    ....    Mrs.  Sigourney .    .    .    245 

The  Wreck Mrs.  Hemans     ...    246 

The  Retreat  from  Moscow Anon 248 

Man  was  made  to  mourn Burns 249 

Unseen  Spirits Willis 252 

The  true  Measure  of  Life P.J.  Bailey  ....    253 

Flowers Thomas  P.  Moses  .    .    254 

Mazeppa Byron 256 

Sabbath  Morning  in  the  Country     .    .    Bailey 258 

Make  your  Mark David  Barker    ...    259 

Life's  Morning,  Noon,  and  Evening  .    .    L.M.D 260 

Disasters Longfellow    ....    261 

Wealth  is  not  Happiness Mrs.  Norton  ....    262 

The  Charnel  Ship L.  M.  Davidson     .    .    263 

A  HomF  to  rest  in Morford 265 

The  Evening  Sail Crahbe 266 

The  Grave  of  Mrs.  Judson Miss  M.  Remick     .    .    268 

Happiness Pollok 269 

The  Cornelian Byron 270 

God  bless  our  Father  Land O.  W.  Holmes    ...    271 

Only  one  Life Anon 272 

The  May  Queen Alfred  Tennyson   .    .    273 

Bonds  of  Affection Landon 278 

My  Creed Alice  Cary     ....    279 

The  Rose  BY  the  Wayside  ......    D.  A.  Drown.    ...    280 

From  an  Italian  Sonnet Rogers 281 

Love  and  Reason Moore 282 

The  Bride's  Farewell Mrs.  Hemans     ...    284 


12  CONTENTS. 


The  Days  of  Yore Douglas  Thompson    ,  285 

The  Path  of  Independence Anon 286 

A  Picture B.  P.  SInllaber  ...  287 

An  Acrostic F.  A ,289 

From  the  Merchant  of  Venice  ....  Shakspeare    ....  290 

The  Poet Scott 291 

Illustration  of  a  Picture O.  W.  Holmes    ...  293 

The     iver Mrs.Hemans.    ...  295 

Through  the  Darkness William  Winter    .    .  297 

Life  and  Death Ben  Jonson   ....  298 

The  Country  Lassie Anon 299 

The  Breeze  in  the  Church Miss  Hinxliatn  ...  300 

Ode  on  Art Sprague 302 

I  Remember,  I  Remember Hood 303 

Sensibility Rogers 304 

The  Old  and  the  New  Year Anon 305 

Loved  you  better  than  y'ou  knew    .    .  Atlantic  Monthly  .    .  300 

Time  and  its  Changes Bailey 308 

The  Toast Scott 309 

Time Young 311 

The  Heart's  Fine  Gold W.  O.  Bourne    .    .    .  312 

The  Old  Folks'  Room Anon 313 

Elegy  —  Written  in  Spring Bi-uce 315 

The  River  Path Whittier 316 

The  Banquet Landon 318 

Time,  Hope,  and  Memory Hood 319 

Little  Rose Blackwood's  Mag. .    .  320 

Poesy O.  W.  Holmes    ...  322 

Advice  to  a  Reckless  Youth Ben  Jonson    ....  323 

Good  Counsail Geoffrey  Chaucer   .    .  324 

Freedom John  Barbour    .    .    .  325 

John  Anderson,  my  jo Burns 326 

The  Pleasures  of  Heaven Ben  Jonson    ....  327 

To  Blossoms Jiohert  Htrrick  ...  328 

Vertue George  Herbert  .    .    .  329 

Love Samuel  Butler  .    .    .  330 

Mariner's  Hymn Mrs,  Southey     ...  331 


CONTENTS. 


13 


Peace   

Rule  Britannia 

The  Maid's  Lament 

Home 

Address  to  the  Ocean 

Jeanie  Morrison 

The  Exile's  Song 

Ten  Years  Ago 

We  Met 

From  "The  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome"  .    . 

Castles  in  the  Air 

The  Men  of  Old 

Clear  the  Way 

From  «'Babe  Christabel" 

The  Grandmother 

The  Skeleton  in  Armor 

The  Present  Crisis 

Song  of  the  Stars 

Bingen  on  the  Rhine 

Love.    (Songs  of  Seven.) 

Evelyn  Hope 

Giving  in  Marriage.    (Songs  of  Seven.) 

The  Children's  Hour 

Youth,  that  Pursuest 

Among  the  Beautiful  Pictures     .    .    . 

Each  and  All 

The  Present 

The  Bells    

Rain  in  Summer 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  and  the  Angel  .    .    . 

The  Inchcape  Rock 

The  Rainbow 

Only  a  Curl 

Douglas,  Douglas,  Tender  and  True    . 

Ring  Out,  Wild  Bells 

Strive,  Wait,  and  Pray 

Break,  Break,  Break 


George  Herbert 
Thomson    .    , 
Landor  .    .    , 
Montgomery  . 
Procter .    .    . 
Wm.  Motherwell 
Robert  Gilfillan 
Alarlc  Alex.  Watts 
Thomas  H.  Bayly  . 
Macaulay  .    ,    . 
James  BaUantine 
R.  M.  Millies 
Charles  Maclcay 
Gerald  Massey  . 
Victor  Hugo  .    , 
Longfellow    .    . 
Jas.  Russell  Lowell 
Bryant  ,    . 
Mrs.  C.  E.  Norton  . 
Jean  Ingelow 
R.  Broivning 
Jean  Ingeloiv 
Longfelloio    . 
R.  M.  Milnes 
Alice  Cary     . 
Emerson    .    , 
Adelaide  A.  Procter 
Edgar  A.  Poe 
Longfellow    . 
Leigh  Hunt    . 
R.  Southey     , 
J.  Keble     .    . 
Mrs.  Browning 
Dinah  Maria  Mtdock, 
Tennyson  . 
Adelaide  A.  Procter 
Tennyson  , 


332 
334 
336 
337 
338 
339 
3413 
343 
314 
345 
347 
349 
350 
352 
354 
357 
363 
369 
371 
375 
376 
378 
380 
382 
383 
384 
386 
388 
392 
394 
395 
396 
399 
402 
403 
404 

m 


14  CONTEXTS. 


The  Gifts  of  God George  Herbert .    .    ,  406 

Incompleteness Adelaide  A.  Procter  .  40T 

The  Ketdkn  of  Youth Bryant 408 

Labor  and  Rest Dinah  Maria  Mulocl;  410 

The  Sands  O'  Dee C.  Kingsletj   ....  411 

The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus Longfellow    ....  412 

The  Summer  Shower T.  B.  Read    ....  416 

The  Old  Man's  Comforts B.  Southey     .    ...  417 

Autumn P.  B.  Shelley     ...  418 

To  Daffodils B.  Herrick     ....  419 

The  Fountain Jas.  Russell  Lowell    .  420 

The  Noble  Nature B.  Jonson 422 

Life's  "Good  Morning" Anna  L.  Barhauld     .  422 

Haste  Not  !  Rest  Not  ! Goethe 423 

Bringing  our  Sheaves  with  Us  ...    .  Elizabeth  Akers     .    .  424 

The  Chambered  Nautilus Oliver  W.  Holmes  .    .  425 

The  Old  World  and  the  New     ....  George  Berkeley     .    .  427 

A  Strip  of  Blue L^lcy  Larcom     ...  428 

Song R.  M.  Milnes     .    .    .  431 

John  Burns  of  Gettysburg Bret  Harte     ....  432 

Questions  of  the  Hour Sarah  M.  B.  Piatt     .  436 

The  Doorstep E.  C.  Stedman  ...  438 

Larv^ Mrs.  Whitney    ...  440 

Spinning Helen  Fiske  Hunt  .    .  441 

Babie  Bell T.  B.  Aldrich    ...  442 

Bust  of  Dante Thos.  W.  Parsons .    .  446 


ShAxkespeare. 


'T  HERE  art  thou,  Muse,  that  thou  forget'st  so  long 
^  To  speak  of  that  which  gives  thee  all  thy  might  ? 
O^y/Ui/i  Send'st  thou  thy  fury  on  some  worthless  song, 
Darkening  thy  power,  to  lend  base  subjects 
light  ? 
Return,  forgetful  Muse,  and  straight  redeem 
In  gentle  numbers  time  so  idly  spent ; 
Sing  to  the  ear  that  doth  thy  lays  esteem. 

And  gives  thy  pen  both  skill  and  argument. 
Rise,  restive  Muse,  my  love's  sweet  face  survey, 

If  Time  have  any  wrinkle  graven  there  ; 
If  any,  be  a  satire  to  decay. 

And  make  Time's  spoils  despised  everywhere. 
Give  my  love  fame  faster  than  Time  wastes  life ; 
So  thou  prevent'st  his  scythe  and  crooked  knife. 

What's  in  the  brain  that  ink  may  character, 

Which  hath  not  figured  to  thee  my  true  spirit  ? 
What 's  new  to  speak,  what  now  to  register, 

That  may  express  my  love,  or  thy  dear  merit  ? 
Nothing,  sweet  boy ;  but  yet,  like  prayers  divine 

I  must  each  day  say  o'er  the  very  same  ; 
Counting  no  old  thing  old,  thou  mine,  I  thine; 

Even  as  when  first  I  hallowed  thy  fair  name. 
So  that  eternal  love  in  love's  fresh  case 

Weighs  not  the  dust  and  injury  of  age, 


18  THE    SPOILS    OF   TIME. 

Nor  gives  to  necessary  wrinkles  place, 

But  makes  antiquity  for  aye  his  page  ; 
Finding  the  first  conceit  of  love  there  bred, 
Where  time  and  outward  form  would  show  it  dead. 

If  there  be  nothing  new,  but  that  which  is 

Hath  been  before,  how  are  our  brains  beguiled, 
Which  laboring  for  invention,  bear  amiss 

The  second  burden  of  a  former  child ! 
O  that  record  could  with  a  backward  look. 

Even  of  five  hundred  courses  of  the  sun. 
Show  me  your  image  in  some  antique  book 

Since  mind  at  first  in  character  was  done  ! 
That  I  might  see  what  the  old  world  could  say 

To  this  composed  wonder  of  your  frame  ; 
Whether  we  are  mended,  or  whe  'r  better  they, 

Or  whether  revolution  be  the  same. 
O  !  sure  I  am,  the  wits  of  former  days 
To  subjects  worse  have  given  admiring  praise. 

Like  as  the  waves,  make  towards  the  pebbled  shore, 

So  do  our  minutes  haste  to  their  end  ; 
Each  changing  place  with  that  which  goes  before. 

In  sequent  toil  all  forwards  do  contend. 
Nativity,  once  in  the  main  of  light, 

Crawls  to  maturity,  wherewith  being  crowned. 
Crooked  eclipses  'gainst  his  glory  fight. 

And  Time,  that  gave,  doth  now  his  gift  confound. 
Time  doth  transfix  the  flourish  set  on  youth, 

And  delves  the  parallels  in  beauty's  brow  ; 
Feeds  on  the  rarities  of  nature's  truth. 

And  nothing  stands  but  for  his  scythe  to  mow. 


THE    SPOILS    OF    TIME,  19 


And  yet,  to  times  in  hope,  my  verse  shall  stand, 
Praising  thy  worth,  despite  his  cruel  hand. 

When  I  have  seen  by  Time's  fell  hand  defaced 

The  rich-proud  cost  of  outworn  buried  age  ; 
When  sometimes  lofty  towers  I  see  down-razed, 

And  brass  eternal,  slave  to  mortal  rage ; 
When  I  have  seen  the  hungry  ocean  gain 

Advantage  on  the  kingdom  of  the  shore, 
And  the  firm  soil  win  of  the  wat'ry  main, 

Increasing  store  with  loss,  and  loss  with  store ; 
When  I  have  seen  such  interchange  of  state. 

Or  state  itself  confounded  to  decay  ; 
Ruin  hath  taught  me  thus  to  ruminate  :  — 

That  time  will  come  and  take  my  love  away. 
This  thought  is  as  a  death,  which  cannot  choose 
But  weep  to  have  that  which  it  fears  to  lose. 

Since  brass,  nor  stone,  nor  earth,  nor  boundless  sea 

But  sad  mortality  o'ersways  their  power. 
How  with  this  rage  shall  beauty  hold  a  plea. 

Whose  action  is  no  stronger  than  a  flower  ? 
0,  how  shall  summer's  honey  breath  hold  out 

Against  the  wreckful  siege  of  battering  days. 
When  rocks  impregnable  are  not  so  stout, 

Nor  gates  of  steel  so  strong  but  time  decays  ? 
0,  fearful  meditation  !  where,  alack  ! 

Shall  Time's  best  jewel  from  Time's  chest  lie  hid 
Or  what  strong  hand  can  hold  his  swift  foot  back  ? 

Or  who  his  spoil  of  beauty  can  forbid  ? 
O,  none  — unless  this  miracle  have  might, 
That  in  black  ink  my  love  may  still  shine  bright. 


20  Manfred's  soliloquy. 


Syron. 


HE  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  tops 
Of  the  snow-shiaing  mountains.  —  Beautiful ! 
I  linger  yet  with  Nature,  for  the  night 
Hath  been  to  me  a  more  familiar  face 
Than  that  of  man  ;   and  in  her  starry  shade 
Of  dim  and  solitary  loveliness, 
I  learned  the  language  of  another  world. 
I  do  remember  me,  that  in  my  youth, 
When  I  was  wandering,  —  upon  such  a  night 
I  stood  within  the  Coliseum's  wall, 
'Midst  the  chief  relics  of  almighty  Rome  ; 
The  trees  which  grew  along  tlie  broken  arches 
Waved  dark  in  the  blue  midnight,  and  the  stars 
Shone  through  the  rents  of  ruin ;  from  afar 
The  watch-dog  bayed  beyond  the  Tiber ;   and 
More  near  from  out  the  Caesars'  palace  came 
The  owl's  long  cry,  and,  interruptedly. 
Of  distant  sentinels  the  fitful  song 
Begun  and  died  upon  the  gentle  wind. 
Some  cypresses  beyond  the  time-worn  breach 
Appeared  to  skirt  th'  horizon,  yet  they  stood 
Within  a  bowshot  —  where  the  Caesars  dwelt, 
And  dwell  the  tuneless  birds  of  night,  amidsl 
A  grove  which  springs  through  levelled  battlements. 
And  twines  its  roots  with  the  imperial  hearths  : 
Ivy  usurps  the  laurel's  place  of  growtli  ;  — 


JOY   AND    SOEROW.  21 

But  the  gladiators'  bloody  Circus  stands, 

A  noble  wreck  in  ruinous  perfection  ! 

While  Caesars'  chambers  and  the  Augustan  halla 

Grovel  on  earth  in  indistinct  decay. — 

And  thou  didst  shine,  thou  rolling  moon,  upon 

All  this,  and  cast  a  wide  and  tender  light, 

Which  softened  down  the  hoar  austerity 

Of  rugged  desolation,  and  filled  up, 

As  'twere  anew,  the  gaps  of  centuries, 

Leaving  that  beautiful  which  still  was  so, 

And  making  that  which  was  not,  till  the  place 

Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o'er 

With  silent  worship  of  the  great  of  old !  — 

The  dead,  but  sceptred  sovereigns,  who  still  rule 

Our  spirits  from  their  urns.  —  'T  was  such  a  night 

'Tis  strange  that  I  recall  it  at  this  time  ; 

But  I  have  found  our  thoughts  take  wildest  flight 

E'en  at  the  moment  when  they  should  array 

Themselves  in  pensive  order. 


Hedderwiok. 


HE  gayest  hours  trip  lightly  by, 

And  leave  the  faintest  trace  ; 
'But  the  deep,  deep  track  that  sorrow  wears 

Time  never  can  efface. 


22  MUSIC    OF    JSATUKE. 


(Pierpont. 


N  what  rich  harmony,  what  polished  lays. 
Should  man  address  thy  throne,  when  Nature  payi 
Her  wild,  her  tuneful  tribute  to  the  sky ! 
Yes,  Lord,  she  sings  thee,  but  she  knows  not  why. 
The  fountain's  gush,  the  long-responding  shore, 
The  zephyr's  whisper,  and  the  tempest's  roar, 
The  rustling  leaf,  in  autumn's  fading  woods, 
The  wintry  storm,  the  rush  of  vernal  floods. 
The  summer  bower,  by  cooling  breezes  fanned. 
The  torrent's  fall,  by  dancing  rainbows  spanned. 
The  streamlet,  gurgling  through  its  rocky  glen. 
The  long  grass,  sighing  o'er  the  graves  of  men, 
The  bird  that  crests  yon  dew-bespangled  tree, 
Shakes  his  bright  plumes,  and  trills  his  descant  free. 
The  scorching  bolt,  that,  from  thine  armory  hurled, 
Burns  its  red  path,  and  cleaves  a  shrinking  world,  — 
All  these  are  music  to  Religion's  ear :  — 
Music,  thy  hand  awakes,  for  man  to  hear. 


REMKMHKANCa,  23 


Southcy, 

AN  hath  a  weary  pilgrimage, 

As  through  the  world  he  wends; 
On  every  stage  from  youth  to  age 

Still  discontent  attends  ; 
With  heaviness  he  casts  his  eye 

Upon  the  road  before, 
And  still  remembers  with  a  sigh 

The  days  that  are  no  more. 


To  school  the  little  exile  goes, 

Torn  from  his  mother's  arms,  — 
What  then  shall  soothe  his  earliest  woes. 

When  novelty  hath  lost  its  charms  ? 
Condemned  to  suffer  through  the  day 
Restraints  which  no  rewards  repay, 

And  cares  where  love  has  no  concern, 
Hope  lengthens  as  she  counts  the  hours 

Before  his  wished  return. 
From  hard  control  and  tyrant  rules, 
The  unfeeling  discipline  of  schools, 

In  thought  he  loves  to  roam, 
And  tears  will  struggle  in  his  eye 
While  he  remembers  with  a  sigh 

The  comforts  of  his  home. 

Youth  comes  ;  the  toils  and  cares  of  life 
Torment  the  restless  mind : 


24  REMEMBRANCE. 


Where  shall  the  tired  and  harassed  heart 

Its  consolation  find  ? 
Then  is  not  Youth,  as  Fancy  tells, 

Life's  summer  prime  of  joy  ? 
Ah,  no  !   for  hopes  too  long  delayed, 
And  feelings  blasted  or  betrayed, 

Its  fabled  bliss  destroy  ; 
And  Youth  remembers  with  a  sigh, 
The  careless  days  of  Infancy. 

Maturer  Manhood  now  arrives. 

And  other  thoughts  come  on, 
But  with  the  baseless  hopes  of  Youth 

Its  generous  warmth  is  gone  ; 
Cold,  calculating  cares  succeed, 
The  timid  thought,  the  wary  deed. 

The  dull  realities  of  truth  ; 
Back  on  the  past  he  turns  his  eye, 
Kemembering  with  an  envious  sigh 

The  happy  dreams  of  Youth. 

So  reaches  he  the  latter  stage 
Of  this  our  mortal  pilgrimage. 

With  feeble  step  and  slow ; 
New  ills  that  latter  stage  await, 
And  old  Experience  learns  too  late 

That  all  is  vanity  below. 
Life's  vain  delusions  are  gone  by  i 

Its  idle  hopes  are  o'er ; 
Yet  Age  remembers  with  a  sigh 

The  days  that  are  no  more. 


THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE.  25 


Til©  BiSirtii  flllap. 

Goldsmith. 


|WEET  Auburn  !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 
Where  health  and  plenty   cheered  the  laboring 
swain, 

'(,^y?/^ Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 
>57j^  And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delayed. 
^^  Dear,  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 

Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please, 
How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green. 
Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scene ! 
How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm,  — 
The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 
The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 
The  decent  church  that  topped  the  neighboring  hill, 
The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade 
For  talking  age,  and  whispering  lovers  made  .' 

How  of^en  have  I  blessed  the  coming  day, 
When  toil  remitting  lent  its  aid  to  play, 
And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free, 
Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree ! 
While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade  ! 
The  young,  contending,  as  the  old  surveyed ; 
And  many  a  gambol  frolicked  o'er  the  ground, 
And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round 

Sweet,  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn  ; 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn ; 


26  THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE. 

Amid  thy  bowers,  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 

And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green  : 

No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day. 

But,  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way; 

Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 

The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey. 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay ; 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade  ; 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made  ; 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride, 
When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  supplied. 

Sweet  Auburn!  parent  of  the  blissful  hour. 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power, 
Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds. 
Amid  thy  tangling  walks  and  ruined  grounds, 
And,  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew, 
Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs,  —  and  God  has  given  my  share,— 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amid  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down  ; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close. 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose  : 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past. 
Here  to  return,  —  and  die  at  home  at  last. 

O  blest  retirement !  friend  to  life's  decline. 
Retreat  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine. 
How  blessed  is  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  like  these, 
A  youth  of  labor  with  an  age  of  ease  : 


EVENING. 


27 


Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try, 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly ! 
So  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 
Angels  around  befriending  virtue's  friend  ; 
Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay, 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way  ; 
And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past. 


• -CS^s^ 


_J/[llton's  "  (Paradise  Lost." 


OW  came  still  Evening  on,  and  Twilight  gray 
Had  in  her  sober  livery  all  things  clad. 
Silence  accompanied  ;  for  beast  and  bird, 
They  to  their  grassy  couch,  these  to  their  nests, 
Were  slunk,  all  but  the  wakeful  nightingale  ; 
She  all  night  long  her  amorous  descant  sung; 
Silence  was  pleased.    Now  glowed  the  firmament 
With  living  sapphires  :  Hesperus,  that  led 
The  starry  host,  rode  brightest ;  till  the  moon, 
Rising  in  clouded  majesty,  at  length 
Apparent  queen,  unveiled  her  peerless  light. 
And  o'er  the  dark  her  silver  mantle  threw. 


m 


THE    DAFFODILS. 


YU  Bate 


Wordsworth. 


w-'c^-acsrKS^j-^ 


WANDERED  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host  of  golden  daff"odils, 
Beside  the  lake,  beside  the  trees. 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 


Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way. 

They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay ; 

Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 

Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 
Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee  ;  — 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay. 
In  such  a  jocund  company; 

I  gazed,  and  gazed,  but  little  though 

What  wealth  that  show  to  me  had  brought. 


For  oft  when  on  my  couch  I  lie, 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude ; 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 

And  dances  with  the  dafi'odils. 


DOMESTIC    LOVE.  -9 


Qroly. 


OMESTIC  love !  not  in  proud  palace  halls 

Is  often  seen  thy  beauty  to  abide  ; 
Thy  dwelling  is  in  lowly  cottage  walls, 

That  in  the  thickets  of  the  woodbine  hide ; 
With  hum  of  bees  around,  and  from  the  side 
Of  woody  hills  some  little  bubbling  spring, 
Shining  along  through  banks  with  harebells 
dyed 
And  many  a  bird,  to  warble  on  the  wing, 
When  Morn  her  saifron  robe  o'er  heaven  and  earth 
doth  fling. 

0  love  of  loves  !  to  thy  white  hand  is  given 

Of  earthly  happiness  the  golden  key ; 
Thine  are  the  joyous  hours  of  winter's  even, 

When  the  babes  cling  around  their  father's  knee  ; 

And  thine  the  voice  that  on  the  midnight  sea 
Melts  the  rude  mariner  with  thoughts  of  home, 

Peopling  the  gloom  with  all  he  longs  to  see. 
Spirit !  I  've  built  a  shrine  ;  and  thou  hast  come. 
And  on  its  altar  closed  —  forever  closed  thy  plume! 


30 


GRAY  S    ELEGY. 


Gray. 


'  HE  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day  ; 

The  lowing  herds  wind  slowly  o'er  the  lea; 
The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  waj 
\^        And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds  ;  — 

Save  that,  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower. 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient,  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade. 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap. 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid. 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn. 

The  swallow,  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care  ; 


gray's  elegy.  31 

Nor  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield  ; 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke ; 
How  jocund  did  they  driv^*  their  team  a-field  ! 

How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke ! 

Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joy,  and  destiny  obscure  ; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 

Await,  alike,  the  inevitable  hour  ;  — 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault, 
If  memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise. 

Where,  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault, 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn,  or  animated  bust. 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 

Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 

Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  death  ? 

Perhaps,  in  this  neglected  spot,  is  laid 

Some  heart,  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire ; 

Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  liave  swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 


32  gkay's  elegy. 


But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er  unroll ; 

Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage. 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem,  of  purest  ray  serene, 

The  dark,  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear ; 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that,  with  dauntless  breast, 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood  ; 

Some  mute,  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest ; 
Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes. 

Their  lot  forbade  ;  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined ;  • 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne. 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind  ; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  Truth  to  hide. 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  Shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife. 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray : 


gray's  eleuy.  33 


Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life, 
They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet,  e'en  these  bone?  from  insult  to  protect, 

Some  frail  memorial,  still  erected  nigh, 
With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked, 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelled  by  the  unlettered  MusCi 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply ; 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey. 

This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, — = 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day,  — 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind  ? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies  ; 

Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires  : 
E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries, 

E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  th'  unhonored  dead. 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate, 

If,  chance,  by  lonely  Contemplation  led, 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate. 

Haply,  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
"  Oft  have  we  seen  him,  at  the  peep  of  dawn. 

Brushing,  with  hasty  steps,  the  dews  away. 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 


S4:  gray's  elegy. 

"  There,  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech, 
That  wreathes  its  old,  fantastic  roots  so  high. 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch. 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

*'  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling,  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies,  he  would  rove ; 

Now  drooping,  woful,  wan,  like  one  forlorn. 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  with  hopeless  love. 

"  One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  accustomed  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree  ; 

Another  came  ;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill. 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood,  was  he. 

"  The  next,  with  dirges  due,  in  sad  array. 

Slow  through  the  churchway  path  we  saw  him  borne , 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 

Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn." 


The  Epitaph. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth 
A  youth,  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown  : 

Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere  : 
Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send  : 

He  gave  to  misery  all  he  had  —  a  tear :  — 

He  gained  from  Heaven — 't  was  all  he  wished — a  frien( 


THE    BURIAL    OF    SIR   JOHN    IMOORE.  85 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 

(There  they,  alike,  in  trembling  hope,  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  hir  Father  and  his  God. 


Wolfe 


OT  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  ramparts  we  hurried ; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  Hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  ;  at  dead  of  night ; 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning. 
By  the  struggling  moonbeams'  misty  light, 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coiRn  enclosed  his  breast, 

Nor  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  wound  him ; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  dead. 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 


36  YOUTH. 

We  thought  —  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed, 
And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow  — 

How  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his  head 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow  ! 

Lightly  they  '11  talk  of  the  spirit  that 's  gone, 

And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him  ; 
But  little  he  '11  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 

In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 

When  the  clock  tolled  the  hour  for  retiring, 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun, 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing.  — 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory. 

We  carved  not  a  line,  we  raised  not  a  stone. 
But  left  him  —  alone  with  his  glory! 


« — ^^^.s^^fe^^^^^'— 


Soott 


'he  Tear  down  Childhood's  cheek  that  flows, 
^J4:  Is  like  the  dewdrop  on  the  Rose  ; 

^  When  next  the  Summer  breeze  comes  by, 
And  waves  the  bush,  the  Flower  is  dry. 


THK    NEW    VKAR. 


3' 


WUlis. 

•  LEETLY  hath  passed  the  year ;  the  seasons  came 
I  Duly  as  they  were  wont,  —  the  gentle  Spring, 
And  the  delicious  Summer,  and  the  cool 
Rich  Autumn,  with  the  nodding  of  the  grain. 
And  Winter,  like  an  old  and  hoary  man, 
Frosty  and  stiff,  —  and  so  are  chronicled. 
We  have  read  gladness  in  the  new  green  leaf, 
And  in  the  first-blown  violets  ;  we  have  drunk 
Cool  water  from  the  rock,  and  in  the  shade 
Sunk  to  the  noontide  slumber  ;  we  have  plucked 
The  mellow  fruitage  of  tlie  bending  tree, 
And  girded  to  our  pleasant  wanderings 
When  the  cool  winds  came  freshly  from  the  hills ; 
And  when  the  tinting  of  the  Autumn  leaves 
Had  faded  from  its  glory,  we  have  sat 
By  the  good  fires  of  Winter,  and  rejoiced 
Over  the  fulness  of  the  gathered  sheaf. 

"  God  hath  been  very  good."     'T  is  He  whose  hand 
Moulded  the  sunny  hills,  and  hollowed  out 
The  shelter  of  the  valleys,  and  doth  keep 
The  fountains  in  their  secret  places  cool  ; 
And  it  is  He  who  leadeth  up  the  sun, 
And  ordereth  up  the  starry  influences, 
And  tempereth  the  keenness  of  the  frost ; 
And,  therefore,  in  the  plenty  of  the  feast. 
And  in  the  lifting  of  the  cup,  let  Him 
Have  praises  for  the  well-completed  jeaXt 


280.'$03 


3  5  jeOBEST    HVMN. 


^ryant. 

HE  groves  were  God's  first  temples.     For  mat 

learned 
To  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave, 

f^~)  And  spread  the  roof  above  them,  —  ere  he  framed 
The  lofty  vault,  to  gather  and  roll  back 
The  sound  of  anthems,  — in  the  darkling  wood, 
Amid  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down 
And  oflFered  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks 
And  supplications.     Let  me,  then,  at  least. 
Here  in  the  shadow  of  this  aged  wood, 
Offer  one  hymn  —  thrice  happy,  if  it  find 
Acceptance  in  his  ear. 

Father,  thy  hand 
Hath  reared  these  venerable  columns  ;  thou 
Didst  weave  this  verdant  roof.     Thou  didst  look  dowQ 
Upon  the  naked  earth,  and,  forthwith,  rose 
All  these  fair  ranks  of  trees.     They  in  tliy  sun 
Budded,  and  shook  their  green  leaves  in  the  breeze. 
And  shot  towards  heaven.     The  century-living  crow 
Whose  birth  was  in  the  tops,  grew  old  and  died 
Among  their  branches,  —  till,  at  last,  they  stood. 
As  now  they  stand,  massy,  and  tall,  and  dark, 
Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshipper  to  hold 
Communion  with  his  Maker.     These  dim  vaults. 
These  winding  aisles,  of  human  pomp  or  pride 
Report  not.     No  fantastic  carvings  show 


MANS    LIFE. 


39 


The  boast  of  our  vain  race  to  change  the  form 
Of  thy  fair  workp.     But  thou  art  there  ;  thou  fill'st 
The  solitude ;  thou  art  in  the  soft  winds 
That  lun  along  the  summit  of  these  trees 
In  music ;  thou  art  in  the  cooler  breath, 
That,  from  the  inmost  darkness  of  the  place. 
Conies,  scarcely  felt ;  the  barky  trunks,  the  ground. 
The  fresh,  moist  ground,  are  all  instinct  with  thee. 


— MJ^ — 


Qrahhe. 


INUTELY  trace  man's  life  ;  year  after  year. 
Through  all  his  days  let  all  his  deeds  appear, 
And  then,  though  some  may  in  that  life  be 
strange 
Yet  there  appears  no  vast  nor  sudden  change : 
The  links  that  bind  those  various  deeds  are  seen; 
And  no  mysterious  void  is  left  between. 
But  let  these  binding  links  be  all  destroyed. 
All  that  through  years  he  suffered  or  enjoyed, 
Let  that  vast  gap  be  made,  and  then  behold  — 
This  was  the  youth,  and  he  is  thus  when  old; 
Then  we  at  once  the  work  of  time  survey, 
And  in  an  instant  see  a  life's  decay. 


40  LYCIDAS. 


T.  g.Jlldrich. 


WALKED  with  him  one  melancholy  night 
Down  by  the  sea,  upon  the  moon-lit  strands. 

While  in  the  silent  heaven  the  Northern  Light 
Beckoned  with  flaming  hands  ! 

Beckoned  and  vanished,  like  a  woeful  ghost 
That  fain  would  lure  us  to  some  dismal  wood, 
And  tell  us  tales  of  ships  that  have  been  lost, 
Of  violence  and  blood. 

And  where  yon  daedal  rocks  o'erhang  the  froth. 

We  sat  together,  Lycidas  and  I, 
Watching  the  great  star-bear  that  in  the  North 

Guarded  the  midnight  sky. 

And  while  the  moonlight  wrought  its  miracles, 
Drenching  the  world  with  silent  silver  rain, 

He  spoke  of  life  and  its  tumultuous  ills  ; 
He  told  me  of  his  pain. 

He  said  his  life  was  like  the  troubled  sea 
With  autumn  brooding  over  it ;   and  then 

Spoke  of  his  hopes,  of  what  he  yearned  to  be, 
And  what  he  might  have  been. 

"I  hope,"  said  Lycidas,  "  for  peace  at  last; 
I  only  ask  for  peace  !  ray  god  is  Ease : 


'tis  a  little  thing.  41 

Day  after  day  some  rude  iconoclast 
Breaks  all  my  images. 

*'  There  is  a  bettor  life  than  I  have  known  — 
A  surer,  purer,  sweeter  life  than  this  : 

There  is  another,  a  celestial  zone. 
Where  I  shall  know  of  bliss." 

Close  his  sad  eyes  and  cross  his  helplesG  hands, 
And  lay  the  flowers  he  loved  upon  his  breast ; 

For  time  and  death  have  stayed  the  golden  sands 
That  ran  with  such  unrest. 

You  weep  :  I  smile  :  I  know  that  he  is  dead ! 

So  is  his  passion  ;   and  'tis  better  so  : 
Take  him,  0  earth,  and  round  Iiis  lovely  head 

Let  countless  roses  blow. 


I'alfourd 


O  give  a  cup  of  water ;  yet  its  draught 

Of  cool  refreshment,  drained  by  fevered  lip* 

May  give  a  shock  of  pleasure  to  the  frame 

More  exquisite  than  when  nectarian  juice 

Renews  the  life  of  joy  in  happiest  hours. 

It  is  a  little  thing  to  speak  a  phrase 

Of  common  comfort,  which  by  daily  use  // 


42  NIGHT. 

Has  almost  lost  its  sense  ;  yet  on  the  ear 

Of  him  who  thought  to  die  unrenowned,  'twill  fall 

Like  choicest  music ;  fill  the  glazing  eye 

With  gentle  tears  ;  relax  the  knotted  hand 

To  know  the  bonds  of  fellowship  again  ; 

And  shed  on  the  departing  soul  a  sense, 

(More  precious  than  the  benison  of  friends 

About  the  honored  death  bed  of  the  rich,; 

To  him  who  else  were  lonely,  that  another 

Df  the  great  family  is  near  and  feels 


s--rs^32s'"55"3- 


Souihey 


OW  beautiful  is  night ! 

A  dewy  freshness  fills  the  silent  air ; 

No  mist  obscures,  nor  cloud,  nor  epeck,  nor  stnin 

Breaks  the  serene  of  heaven  ; 

In  full-orbed  glory  yonder  moon  divine 

RjUs  through  the  dark-blue  depths. 

Beneath  her  steady  ray 

The  desert-circle  spreads 

Like  the  ocean  girdled  with  the  sky. 

How  hpaiitiful  is  night ' 


TlIK    SKOW    STORM.  43 


Emerson 

NNOUNCED  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
Arrives  the  snow,  and  driving  o'er  the  fields. 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight ;   the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river,  and  the  heaver. 
And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's  end. 
The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the   courier's  fee; 
Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates  si' 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm. 
Come,  see  the  north  wind's  masonry  ! 
Out  of  an  unseen  quarry,  evermore 
Furnished  with  tile,  the  fierce  artificer 
Curves  his  white  bastions,  with  projected  roof, 
Round  every  windward  stake,  or  tree,  or  door ; 
Speeding,  the  myriad-handed,  his  wild  work, 
So  fanciful,  so  savage  ;  nought  cares  he 
For  number  or  proportion ;  mockingly, 
On  coop  or  kennel,  he  hangs  Parian  wreaths ; 
A  swan-like  form  invests  the  hidden  thorn. 
Fills  up  the  farmer's  lane  from  wall  to  wall, 
Maugre  the  farmer's  sighs  ;   and,  at  the  gate, 
A  tapering  turret  overtops  the  work  ; 
And  when  his  hours  are  numbered,  and  the  woffM 
Is  all  his  own,  returning,  as  he  were  not, 
Leaves,  when  the  sun  appears,  astonished  Art 
To  mimic  in  slow  structure,  stone  by  stone, 
Built  in  an  age,  the  mad  wind's  night  worV, 
The  frolic  architecture  of  the  snow. 


44 


A    PRAYER    IN    THE    PROSPECT    OF    DEATH. 


THOU  unknown,  Almighty  Cause 

Of  all  my  hope  and  fear  ! 
In  whose  dread  presence,  ere  an  hour, 

Perhaps  I  must  appear  ! 


If  I  have  wandered  in  those  paths 
Of  life  I  ought  to  shun  ; 
As  something,  loudly,  in  my  breast 
Remonstrates  I  have  done,  — 


Thou  knowest  that  Thou  hast  formed  me 
With  passions  wild  and  strong  ; 

And  list'ning  to  their  witching  voice 
Has  often  led  me  wrong. 

Where  human  weakness  has  come  short, 

Or  frailty  steps  aside. 
Do  thou,  All-Good  !  — for  such  thou  art- 

In  shades  of  darkness  hide. 


Where  with  intention  I  have  erred, 

No  other  plea  I  have, 
But,  Thou  art  good ;  and  goodness  still 

Deligliteth  to  forgive. 


HALLOWEEN.  45 


I^ohert  ^ums. 


Yes  !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
The  simple  pleasures  of  the  lowly  train; 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm  than  all  the  gloss  of  art. 

Goldsmith, 


I. 


C%  PON  that  night  when  fairies  light, 


My 


On  Cassalis  Downans  dance, 
Or  owre  the  lays,  in  splendid  blaze, 

On  sprightly  coursers  prance  ; 
Or  for  Colean  the  rout  is  taen. 

Beneath  the  moon's  pale  beams ; 
There,  up  the  cove,  to  stray  an'  rove 

Amang  the  rocks  an'  streams, 
To  sport  that  night. 


Amang  the  bonie,  winding  banks, 

Where  Doon  rins,  wimplin,  clear, 
Where  Bruce  ance  rul'd  the  martial  ranks, 

And  shook  his  Carrick  spear. 
Some  merry,  friendly,  countra  folks. 

Together  did  convene, 
To  burn  their  nits,  an'  pou  their  stocks, 

An'  baud  their  Halloween, 

Fu'  blythe  that  night. 


46  HALLOWEEN. 


The  lasses  feat,  an'  cleanly  neat, 

Mair  braw  than  when  they're  fine  ; 
Their  faces  blythe,  fu'  sweetly  kythe, 

Hearts  leal,  an'  warm,  an'  kin' : 
The  lads  sae  trig,  wi'  wooer-babs, 

Weel  knotted  on  their  garteu, 
Some  unco  blate,  and  some  wi'  gabs. 

Gar  lasses'  hearts  gang  startin, 

Whyles  fast  that  night. 

IV. 

Then  first  and  foremost,  thro'  the  kail 

Their  stocks  maun  a'  be  sought  anee ; 
They  steek  their  een,  an'  graip  an'  wale, 

For  muckle  anes  an'  straught  anes, 
Poor  hav'rel  Will  fell  aft  the  drift, 

An'  wander'd  thro'  the  bow-kail, 
An'  pow't,  for  want  o'  better  shift, 

A  runt  was  like  a  sow-tail, 

Sae  bow't  that  night. 

V. 

Then,  straught  or  crooked,  yird  or  nane. 

They  roar  an'  cry  a  throu'ther ; 
The  vera  wee  things,  todlin,  rin 

Wi'  stocks  out  owre  their  shouther ; 
An'  gif  the  custock's  sweet  or  sour, 

Wi'  joctelegs  they  taste  them; 
Syne  coziely,  aboon  the  door, 

Wi'  cannie  care  they  've  plac'd  them. 
To  lie  that  night. 


HALLOWEKN.  47 


VI. 

The  lasses  staw  frae  'mang  them  a'. 

To  pou  their  stalks  o'  corn  : 
But  Rab  slips  out,  an'  jinks  about, 

Behint  the  muckle  thorn  : 
He  grippet  Nelly  hard  an'  fast, 

Loud  skirled  a'  the  lasses  ; 
But  her  tap-pickle  maist  was  lost, 

When  kiutlin  in  the  fause-house, 
Wi'  him  that  night. 

VII. 

The  auld  guidwife's  weel-hoarded  nits 

Are  round  an'  round  divided. 
An'  monie  lads'  an'  lasses'  fates 

Are  there  that  night  decided  : 
Some  kindle,  couthie,  side  by  side, 

An'  burn  thegither  trimly  ; 
Some  start  awa  wi'  saucy  pride, 

An'  jump  out  owre  the  chimlie, 
Fu'  high  that  night. 

VIII. 

Jean  slips  in  twa  wi'  tentie  e'e ; 

Wha  'twas  she  wadna  tell ; 
But  this  is  Jock,  and  this  is  me. 

She  says  in  to  hersel' : 
He  bleez'd  owre  her,  an'  she  owre  him. 

As  they  wad  never  mair  part ! 
Till,  fuff !   he  started  up  the  lum, 

An'  Jean  had  e'en  a  sair  heart. 
To  see't  that  night. 


48  HALLOWEEN. 


IX. 

Poor  Willie,  wi'  his  bow-kail  runt, 

Was  brunt  wi'  primsie  Mallie  ; 
An'  Mallie,  nae  doubt,  took  the  drunt, 

To  be  compar'd  to  Willie; 
Mall's  nit  lap  out  wi'  pridefu'  fling. 

An'  her  ain  fit  it  brunt  it ; 
While  Willie  lap,  and  swoor  by  jing, 

'Twas  just  the  way  he  wanted 
To  be  that  night. 

X. 

Nell  had  the  fause-house  in  her  min', 

She  pits  hersel'  an'  Robin ; 
In  loving  bleeze  they  sweetly  join, 

Till  white  in  ase  they're  sobbin : 
Nell's  heart  was  dancin  at  the  view. 

She  whisper'd  Rob  to  leuk  for't : 
Rob,  stowlins,  prie'd  her  bonie  mou, 

Fu'  cozie  in  the  neuk  for't, 

Unseen  that  night. 

XI. 

But  Merran  sat  behint  their  backs, 

Her  thoughts  on  Andrew  Bell ; 
She  lea'es  them  gasliin  at  their  cracks. 

An'  slips  out  by  hersel' ; 
She  thro'  the  yard  the  nearest  taks, 

An'  to  the  kiln  she  goes  then, 
An'  darklins  grapit  for  the  bauks, 

And  in  the  blue-clue  throws  then. 
Right  fear't  that  night. 


HALLOWEEN.  49 


An  ay  she  wint,  an'  ay  she  "nva*,, 

I  wat  she  made  nae  jaukin; 
Till  something  h'>ld  within  the  pat, 

Guid  L — d,  but  she  was  quakin ! 
But  whether  'twas  the  Deil  himsel' 

Or  whether  'twas  a  bauk-en'. 
Or  whether  it  was  Andrew  Bell, 

She  did  nae  wait  on  talkin 

To  spier  that  night. 

XIII. 

Wee  Jennie  to  her  grannie  says, 

"  Will  ye  go  wi'  me,  grannie  ? 
I'll  eat  the  apple  at  the  glass, 

I  gat  frae  uncle  Johnnie  :  " 
She  fuf  t  her  pipe  wi'  sic  a  lunt. 

In  wrath  she  was  sae  vap'rin. 
She  notic't  na,  an  aizle  brunt 

Her  braw  new  worsit  apron 

Out  thro'  that  night. 


"  Ye  little  skelpie  limmer's  face, 

How  daur  you  try  sic  sportin, 
As  seek  the  foul  thief  onie  place, 

For  him  to  spae  your  fortune  ? 
Nae  doubt  but  ye  may  get  a  sight : 

Great  cause  ye  have  to  fear  it ; 
For  monie  a  ane  has  gotten  a  fright, 

An'  liv'd  an'  died  deleeret, 
On  sic  a  night. 


50  HALLOWEEN. 


XV. 

*'  Ae  haerst  afore  the  Sherra-moor, 

I  mind  't  as  weel's  yestreen, 
I  was  a  gilpey  then,  I'm  sure, 

I  was  nae  past  fyfteen  ; 
The  simmer  had  been  cauld  an'  wat. 

An'  stuff  was  unco  green  ; 
An'  ay  a  rantin  kirn  we  gat, 

An'  just  on  Halloween 

It  fell  that  night. 

XVI. 

"  Our  stibble-rig  was  Rab  M'Graem, 

A  clever,  sturdy  fellow  ; 
He's  sin'  gat  Eppie  Sim  wi'  wean, 

That  lived  in  Achmacalla  ; 
He  gat  hemp-seed,  I  mind  it  weel, 

An'  he  made  unco  light  o't ; 
But  monie  a  day  was  by  himsel', 

He  was  sae  sairly  frightet 

That  vera  night." 

XVII. 

Then  up  gat  fetchtin'  Jamie  Fleck, 

An'  he  swoor  by  his  conscience, 
That  he  could  saw  hemp-seed  a  peck. 

For  it  was  a'  but  nonsense  ; 
The  auld  guid  man  raught  down  the  pocK, 

An'  out  a  handfu'  gied  him ; 
Syne  bade  him  slip  frae  'mang  the  folk. 

Some  time  when  na  ane  see'd  him, 
An'  try't  that  night. 


HALLOWEEN.  61 


XVIIL 

He  marches  thro'  amang  the  stacks, 

Tho'  he  was  something  sturtin  ; 
The  graip  he  for  a  harrow  taks, 

An'  haurls  at  his  curpin  ; 
An'  ev'ry  now  an'  then  he  says, 

"Hemp-seed,  I  saw  thee, 
An'  her  that  is  to  be  my  lass. 

Come  after  me,  an'  draw  thee 
As  fast  this  night." 

XIX. 

He  whistl'd  up  Lord  Lennox'  march, 

To  keep  his  courage  cheery ; 
Although  his  hair  began  to  arch, 

He  was  sae  fley'd  an'  eerie  ; 
Till  presently  he  hears  a  squeak. 

An'  then  a  grane  an'  gruntle  : 
He  by  his  shouther  gae  a  keek, 

An'  tumbl'd  wi'  a  wintle 

Out  owre  that  night. 

XX. 

He  roar'd  a  horrid  murder-shout, 

In  dreadfu'  desperation  ! 
An'  young  an'  auld  came  rinnin  out, 

To  hear  the  sad  narration  ; 
He  swoor  'twas  hilchin  Jean  M'Craw, 

Or  crouchie  Merran  Humphrie, 
Till  stop  !  she  trotted  thro'  them  a', 

An'  wha  was  it  but  Grumphie 
Asteer  that  night ! 


52  HALLOWEEN. 


XXI. 

Meg  fain  wad  to  the  barn  hae  gaen, 

To  win  three  wechts  o'  naething  ; 
But  for  to  meet  the  Deil  her  lane, 

She  pat  but  little  faith  in  : 
She  gies  the  herd  a  pickle  nits, 

An'  twa  red-cheekit  apples, 
To  watch,  while  for  the  barn  she  sets, 

In  hopes  to  see  Tarn  Kipples 
That  vera  night. 

XXII. 

She  turns  the  key  wi'  cannie  thraw, 

And  owre  the  threshold  ventures  ; 
But  first  on  Sawnie  gies  a  ca'. 

Syne  bauldly  in  she  enters ; 
A  ratton  rattled  up  the  wa'. 

An'  she  cried,  L — d,  preserve  her ! 
An'  ran  thro'  midden-hole  an'  a', 

An'  pra'd  wi'  zeal  an'  fervor, 

Fu'  fast  that  night. 

XXIII. 

They  hoy't  out  Will,  wi'  sair  advice  ; 

Then  hecht  him  some  fine  braw  ane. 
It  chanc'd  the  stack  he  faddom'd  thrice 

Was  timber-propt  for  thrawin  ; 
He  taks  a  swirlie,  auld  moss-oak. 

For  some  black,  grousome  carlin 
An'  loot  a  winze,  an'  drew  a  stroke, 

Till  skin  in  blypes  cam  haurlin, 

AfF's  nieves  that  night. 


HALLOWEEN.  53 


XXIV. 

A  wanton  widow  Leezie  was, 

As  canty  as  a  kittlin  ; 
But  och  I  that  night,  amang  the  shaws, 

She  got  a  fearfu'  settlin  ! 
She  thro'  the  whins,  an'  by  the  cairn, 

An'  owre  the  hill  gaed  scrievin, 
Where  three  lairds'  lands  met  at  a  burn. 

To  dip  her  left  sark-sleeve  in. 

Was  bent  that  night. 

XXV. 

Whyles  o'er  a  linn  the  burnie  plays. 

As  thro'  the  glen  it  wimpl't ; 
Whyles  round  a  rocky  scar  it  strays  ; 

Whyles  in  a  wiel  it  dimpl't ; 
Whyles  glitter'd  to  the  nightly  rays, 

Wi'  bickering,  dancing  dazzle  ; 
Whyles  cookit  underneath  the  braes. 

Below  the  spreading  hazel, 

Unseen  that  night. 

XXVI 

Amang  the  brackens,  on  the  brae, 

Between  her  an'  the  moon, 
The  Deil,  or  else  ah  outler  quay, 

Gat  up  an'  gae  a  croon  ! 
Poor  Leezie's  heart  maist  lap  the  hool : 

Near  lav'rock-height  she  jumpit. 
But  mist  a  fit,  an'  in  the  pool, 

Out  owre  the  lugs  she  plumpit, 

Wi'  a  plunge  that  night. 


54  HALLOWEEN. 

XXVII. 

In  order,  on  the  clean  hearth-stane, 

The  luggies  three  are  ranged. 
An'  ev'ry  time  great  care  is  taen, 

To  see  them  duly  changed  ; 
Auld  uncle  John,  wha  wedlock's  joys. 

Sin'  Mar's  year  did  desire, 
Because  he  gat  the  toom  dish  thrice. 

He  heav'd  them  on  the  fire. 

In  wrath  that  night. 

XXVIII. 

Wi'  merry  sangs,  an'  friendly  cracks, 

I  wat  they  did  na  weary ; 
An'  unco  tales,  an'  funnie  jokes, 

Their  sports  were  cheap  an'  cheery. 
Till  butter'd  so'ns,  wi'  fragrant  lunt, 

Set  a'  their  gabs  a-steerin  ; 
Syne,  wi'  a  social  glass  o'  strunt, 

They  parted  aflF  careerin, 

Fu'  blythe  that  night. 


WHEN    1    AM    OLD. 


55 


CaToline  Jl.  ^riggii 


— s-^tftS-r— 


HEN  I  am  old  —  (and  0,  how  soon 

J ^  Will  life's  sweet  morning  yield  to  noon, 
^,^j  ^  -  And  noon's  broad,  fervid,  earnest  light 
Be  shaded  in  the  solemn  night ! 
Till  like  a  story  well-nigh  told 
Will  seem  my  life,  when  I  am  old,)  — 
When  I  am  old,  this  breezy  earth 
Will  lose  for  me  its  voice  of  mirth ; 
The  streams  will  have  an  undertone 
Of  sadness  not  by  right  their  own  ; 
And  spring's  sweet  power  in  vain  unfold 
In  rosy  charms  —  when  I  am  old, 
When  I  am  old,  I  shall  not  care 
To  deck  with  flowers  my  faded  hair ; 
'T  will  be  no  vain  desire  of  mine 
In  rich  and  costly  dress  to  shine  ; 
Bright  jewels  and  the  brightest  gold 
Will  charm  me  nousht  —  when  I  am  old. 


When  I  am  old,  my  friends  will  be 
Old  and  infirm  and  bowed,  like  me  ; 
Or  else, —  (their  bodies  'neath  the  sod. 
Their  spirits  dwelling  safe  with  God),  — 
The  old  church-bell  will  long  have  tolled 
Above  the  rest  —  when  I  am  old. 
When  I  am  old,  I  'd  rather  bend 
Thus  sadly  o'er  each  buried  friend. 


66  WHEN   I   AM   OLD. 


Than  see  them  lose  the  earnest  truth 
That  marks  the  friendship  of  our  youth ; 
'Twill  be  so  sad  to  have  them  cold, 
Or  strange  to  me  —  when  I  am  old  ! 
When  I  am  old  —  O,  how  it  seems 
Like  the  wild  lunacy  of  dreams, 
To  jjicture  in  prophetic  rli/me 
That  dim,  far-distant,  shadowy  time.  — 
So  distant,  that  it  seems  o'er  bold 
Even  to  say,  "  When  I  am  old." 

When  I  am  old  —  perhaps  ere  then 

I  shall  be  missed  from  haunts  of  men; 

Perhaps  my  dwelling  will  be  found 

Beneath  the  green  and  quiet  mound; 

My  name  by  stranger  hands  enrolled 

Among  the  dead  —  ere  I  am  old. 

Ere  I  am  old  ?  —  that  time  is  now. 

For  youth  sits  lightly  on  my  brow ; 

My  limbs  are  firm,  and  strong,  and  free; 

Life  hath  a  thousand  charms  for  me; 

Charms  that  will  long  their  influence  hold 

Within  my  heart  —  ere  I  am  old. 

Ere  I  am  old,  O,  let  me  give 

My  life  to  learning  hoin  to  lire ! 

Then  shall  I  meet  with  willing  heart 

An  early  summons  to  depart. 

Or  find  my  lengthened  days  consoled 

By  God's  sweet  peace  —  when  I  am  old. 


THE  REVELLERS.  57 


J^rs.    Hemans 


ING,  joyous  chords!  —  ring  out  again! 

A  swifter  still,  and  a  wilder  strain! 

They  are   here  —  the   fair   face  and   the   careles? 
heart, 

And  stars  shall  wane  ere  the  mirthful  part. 

But  I  meet  a  dimly  mournful  glance, 

In  a  sudden  turn  of  the  flying  dance; 
I  heard  the  tone  of  a  heavy  sigh 
In  a  pause  of  the  thrilling  melody! 
And  it  is  not  well  that  woe  should  breathe 
On  the  bright  spring  flowers  of  the  festal  wreath! 
Ye  that  to  thought  or  to  grief  belong. 
Leave,  leave  the  hall  of  song! 

Ring,  joyous  chords!  — but  who  ai-t  thou, 
With  the  shadowy  locks  o'er  thy  pale,  young  brow, 
And  the  world  of  dreamy  gloom  that  lies 
In  the  misty  deptiis  of  thy  soft,  dark  eyes  ? 
Thou  hast  loved,  fair  girl,  thou  hast  loved  too  well: 
Thou  art  mourning  now  o'er  a  broken  spell ; 
Thou  hast  poured  thy  heart's  rich  treasures  forth, 
And  art  unrepaid  for  their  priceless  worth; 
Mourn  on!  —  yet  come  thou  not  here  the  while; 
It  is  but  a  pain  to  see  thee  smile; 
There  is  not  a  tone  in  our  songs  for  thee  — 
Home  witii  thy  sorrows  flee. 


58  THE    KEVELLEES. 


Ring,  joyous  chords  !   ring  out  again  ! 
But  \¥hat  dost  thou  with  the  revel's  train  ? 
A  silvery  voice  through  the  soft  air  floats, 
But  thou  hast  no  part  in  the  gladdening  notes ; 
There  are  bright  young  faces  that  pass  thee  by, 
But  they  fix  no  glance  of  thy  wandering  eye. 
Away  !  there  's  a  void  in  thy  yearning  breast, 
Thou  weary  man  ;  wilt  thou  here  find  rest  ? 
Away  !  for  thy  thoughts  from  the  scene  have  fled, 
And  the  love  of  thy  spirit  is  with  the  dead ! 
Thou  art  but  more  lone  'midst  the  sounds  of  mirth. 
Back  to  thy  silent  hearth ! 

Ring,  joyous  chords  !  ring  forth  again  ; 
A  swifter  still,  and  a  wilder  strain  ! 
But  thou,  though  a  reckless  mien  be  thine, 
And  thy  cup  be  crowned  with  the  foaming  wine. 
By  the  fitful  bursts  of  thy  laughter  loud. 
By  thine  eye's  quick  flash  through  its  troubled  cloud, 
I  know  thee !  it  is  but  the  wakeful  fear 
Of  a  haunted  bosom  that  brings  thee  here ! 
I  know  thee  !  thou  fearest  the  solemn  night, 
With  her  piercing  stars  and  her  deep  wind's  might ! 
There  's  a  tone  in  her  voice  which  thou  fain  would  shuD 
For  it  asks  what  the  secret  soul  had  done  ! 
And  thou,  there  's  a  dark  weight  on  thine  —  away-"- 
Back  to  thy  home  and  pray ! 

Ring,  joyous  chords  !   ring  out  again  ! 
A  swifter  still,  and  a  wilder  strain ! 
And  bring  fresh  wreaths !  we  will  banish  all 
Save  the  free  in  heart  from  our  festive  hall. 


PRACTICAL    CHAKITV.  59 


On !   through  the  maze  of  the  fleeting  dance,  on  ! 
But  where  are  the  young  and  the  lovely  ?  gone  ! 
Where  are  the  brows  with  the  Red  Cross  crowned, 
A.nd  the  floating  forms  with  the  bright  zone  bound  ? 
And  the  waving  locks  and  the  flying  feet, 
That  still  should  be  where  these  mirthful  meet  ? 
They  are  gone,  they  are  fled,  they  are  parted  all: 
Alas  !  the  forsaken  hall ! 


--c^=s^^^;^"5=^>— 


Crahbe. 


N  ardent  spirit  dwells  with  Christian  love, — 
The  eagle's  vigor  in  the  pitying  dove  : 
'Tis  not  enough  that  we  with  sorrow  sigh. 
That  we  the  wants  of  pleading  man  supply ; 
That  we  in  sympathy  with  suff"erers  feel. 
Nor  hear  a  grief  without  a  wish  to  heal :  — 
Not  these  suffice ;  to  sickness,  pain,  and  woe. 
The  Christian  spirit  loves  with  aid  to  go  ; 
Will  not  be  sought,  waits  not  for  want  to  plead, 
But  seeks  the  duty,  —  nay,  prevents  the  need  ; 
Her  utmost  aid  to  every  ill  applies, 
And  plants  relief  for  coming  miseries. 


60  THE   FAITHFUL  DOG. 


J£rs.    Sigourney. 


EE !  how  he  sti-ives  to  rescue  from  the  flood 
The  drowning  child,  who,  venturous  in  his  play, 
Plunged  from  the  slippery  footing.    With  what  joy 
The  brave  deliverer  feels  those  slender  arms 
Convulsive  twining  round  his  brawny  neck, 
And  saves  his  master's  boy ! 

A  zeal  like  this 
Hath  oft,  amid  St.  Bernard's  blinding  snows, 
Tracked  the  faint  traveller,  or  unsealed  the  jaws 
Of  the  voracious  avalanche,  plucking  thence 
The  hapless  victim. 

If  thou  hast  a  dog 
Of  such  a  noble  race,  let  him  not  lack 
Aught  of  the  kind  requital,  that  delights 
His  honest  nature.      When  he  comes  at  eve, 
Laying  his  ample  head  upon  thy  knee. 
And  looking  at  thee  with  a  glistening  eye, 
Repulse  him  not,  but  let  him  on  the  rug 
Sleep  fast  and  warm,  beside  thy  pai-lor  fire. 
The  lion-guard  of  all  thou  lov'st  is  he. 
Yet  bows  his  spirit  at  thy  least  command, 
And  crouches  at  thy  feet.     On  his  ijroad  back 
He  bears  thy  youngest  darling,  and  endures 
Long,  with  a  wagging  tail,  the  teasing  sport 
Of  each  mischievous  imp.     Enough  for  him. 
That  they  are  thine. 


EXHORTATION  TO  COURAGE.  61 

'Tis  but  an  olden  theme 
To  sing  the  faithful  dog.     The  storied  page 
Full  oft  hath  told  his  tried  fidelity, 
In  legend  quaint.     Yet  if  in  this  our  world 
True  friendship  is  a  scarce  and  chary  plant, 
It  might  be  well  to  stoop  and  sow  its  seed 
Even  in  the  humble  bosom  of  a  brute. 
—  Slight  nutriment  it  needs,  —  the  kindly  tone. 
The  sheltering  roof,  the  fragments  from  the  board, 
The  frank  caress,  or  treasured  word  of  pi'aise 
For  deeds  of  loyalty. 

So  may'st  thou  win 
A  willing  servant,  and  an  earnest  friend, 
Faithful  to  death. 


-■CS:^^ • 


Shakespeare. 


UT  wherefore  do  you  droojj?  why  look  you  sad? 
Be  great  in  fact,  as  you  have  been  in  thought ; 
Let  not  the  world  see  fear  and  sad  distrust 
Govern  the  motion  of  a  kingly  eye ; 
Be  stirring  as  the  time;  be  fire  with  fire; 
Threaten  the  threatener,  and  outface  the  brow 
Of  bragging  horror;  so  shall  inferior  eyes. 
That  boriow  their  behaviors  from  the  great, 


62  COUNTRY    AND    PATRIOTISM. 

Grow  great  by  your  example  ;  and  put  on 

The  dauntless  spirit  of  resolution  ; 

Show  boldness  and  aspiring  confidence. 

What !  shall  they  seek  the  lion  in  his  den, 

And  fright  him  there,  and  make  him  tremble  there  ? 

O,  let  it  not  be  said !     Forage,  and  run 

To  meet  displeasures  further  from  the  doors. 

And  grapple  with  him  ere  he  comes  so  nigh ! 


' — -cs^^ — 


Festus. 

LOVE  my  God,  my  country,  kind  and  kin  ; 
Nor  would  I  see  a  dog  robbed  of  his  bone. 
My  country  !  if  a  wretch  shall  e'er  arise 
Out  of  thy  countless  sons,  who  would  curtail 
Thy  freedom,  dim  thy  glory,  —  while  he  lives 
May  all  earth's  peoples  curse  him, — for  of  all 
Hast  thou  secured  the  blessing  ;   and  if  one 
Exists,  who  would  not  arm  for  liberty, 
Be  he,  too,  cursed  while  living,  and  when  dead. 
Let  him  be  buried  downwards,  with  his  face 
Looking  to  hell,  and  o'er  his  coward  grave 
The  hare  skulk  in  her  form. 


THE    OLD    HOME. 


63 


I'ennvson 


>-t^!" 


^^fl  E  leave  the  well-beloved  place 

^     Where  first  we  gazed  upon  the  sky ; 
The  roofs  that  heard  our  earliest  cry 
Will  shelter  one  of  stranger  race. 

We  go,  but  ere  we  go  from  home, 
As  down  the  garden-walks  I  move. 
Two  spirits  of  a  diverse  love 

Contend  for  loving  masterdom. 

One  whispers,  "  Here  thy  boyhood  sung 
Long  since  its  matin  song,  and  heard 
The  low  love-language  of  the  bird, 

In  native  hazels  tassel-hung." 

The  other  answers,  "  Yea,  but  here 
Thy  feet  have  strayed  in  after  hours 
With  thy  best  friend  among  the  bowers. 

And  this  hath  made  them  trebly  dear." 

These  two  have  striven  half  the  day, 
And  each  prefers  his  separate  claim, 
Poor  rivals  in  a  losing  game, 

That  will  not  jield  each  other  way. 


64  NATURE. 

I  tui'n  to  go :  my  feet  are  set 

To  leave  the  pleasant  fields  and  farms; 

They  mix  in  one  another's  arms 
To  one  pure  image  of  regret. 


— H>@'^£E&^^^^H — 


Young-. 


OOIv  Nature  throngli,  'tis  revolution  all ; 
All   change;    no  death.      Day   follows  night;    and 
night 
c)  The  dying  day;  stars  rise  and  set,  and  rise; 
Earth  takes  th'  example.     See,  the  Summer  gay, 
With  her  green  cliaplet  and  ambrosial  flowers. 
Droops  into  pallid  Autumn :    Winter  gray 
Horrid  with  frost,  and  turbulent  with  storm, 
Blows  Autumn  and  his  golden  fruits  away ; 
Then  melts  into  the  Spring ;  soft  Spring,  with  breath 
Favonian,  from  warm  chambers  of  the  south. 
Recalls  the  first.     All,  to  re-flourish,  fades; 
As  in  a  wheel,  all  sinks,  to  reascend  — 
Emblems  of  man,  who  passes,  not  expires. 


FOUNO    HEAD.  65 


^IheH  Laighton 


OUND  dead!  dead  and  alone! 
A^     There  was  nobody  near,  nobody  near 

When  the  Outcast  died  on  his  pillow  of  stone  — 

No  mother,  no  brother,  no  sister  dear, 
Not  a  friendly  voice  to  soothe  or  cheer, 
Not  a  watching  eye  or  a  pitying  tear  — 
O,  the  city  slept  when  he  died  alone. 
In  the  roofless  street,  on  a  pillow  of  stone. 

Many  a  weary  day  went  by. 

While  wretched  and  worn  ho  begged  for  bread, 
Tired  of  life,  and  longing  to  lie 

Peacefully  down  with  the  silent  dead ; 
Hunger  and  cold,  and  scorn  and  pain. 
Had  wasted  his  form  and  seared  his  brain. 
Till  at  last  on  a  bed  of  frozen  ground. 
With  a  pillow  of  stone,  was  the  Outcast  found. 

Found  dead !  dead  and  alone, 

On  a  pillow  of  stone  in  the  roofless  street ; 
Nobody  heard  his  last  faint  moan. 

Or  knew  when  his  sad  heart  ceased  to  beat; 
No  mourner  lingered  with  tears  or  sighs, 
But  the  stars  looked  down  with  pitying  eyes, 
And  the  chill  winds  passed  with  a  wailing  sound 
O'er  the  lonely  spot  where  his  form  was  found. 


66  ONLY   A   YEAR. 


Found  dead !  j^et  Jiot  alone ; 

There  was  somebody  near  —  somebody  near 
To  claim  the  wanderer  as  his  own, 

And  find  a  home  for  the  homeless  here ; 
One,  when  every  human  door 
Is  closed  to  His  children  scorned  and  poor, 
Who  opens  the  heavenly  portal  wide; 
Ah,  God  was  near  when  the  Outcast  died. 


— ^ — 


JVTrs.   H.   S-   Stcwe 

NE  year  ago  —  a  ringing  voice, 

A  clear  blue  eye. 
And  clustering  curls  of  sunny  hair. 

Too  fair  to  die. 

Only  a  year  —  no  voice,  no  smile, 

No  glance  of  eye. 
No  clustering  curls  of  golden  hair, 

Fair  but  to  die! 

One  year  ago  —  what  loves,  what  schemes 

Far  into  life! 
What  joyous  hopes,  what  high  resolves. 

What  generous  strife! 


ONLY   A   YKAK. 


67 


The  silent  pictui-e  on  the  wall. 

The  burial  stone,  — 
Of  all  that  beauty,  life,  and  joy, 

Remain  alone ! 

One  year —  one  year  —  one  little  year, 

And  so  much  gone ! 
And  yet  the  even  flow  of  life 

Moves  calmly  on. 

The  grave  grows  green,  the  flowers  bloom  fair. 

Above  that  head ; 
No  sorrowing  tint  of  leaf  or  spray 

Says  he  is  dead. 

No  pause  or  hush  of  merry  birds 

That  sing  above. 
Tell  us  how  coldly  sleeps  below 

The  form  we  love. 

Where  hast  thou  been  this  year,  beloved? 

What  hast  thou  seen? 
What  visions  fair,  what  glorious  life? 

Where  hast  thou  been? 

The  veil,  the  veil !  so  thin,  so  strong, 

'Twixt  us  and  thee ; 
The  mystic  veil !  when  shall  it  fall, 

That  we  may  see! 

Not  dead,  not  sleeping,  not  even  gone; 
But  present  still. 


68 


LONG   LIFE. 


And  waiting  for  the  coming  hour 
Of  God's  sweet  will. 

Lord  of  the  living  and  the  dead. 

Our  Saviour  deai-, 
We  lay  in  silence  at  thy  feet 

This  sad,  sad  year. 


L@Et  Lifee 


Kennedy 


OUNT  not  thy  life  by  calendars ;  for  years 
Shall  pass  thee  by  unheeded,  whilst  an  hour  — 
Some  little  fleeting  hour,  too  quickly  past  — 
May  stamp  itself  so  deeply  on  thy  brain, 
Thy  latest  years  shall  live  upon  its  joy. 
His  life  is  longest,  not  whose  boneless  gums, 
Sunk   eyes,    wan   cheeks,    and   snow-white    hairs 

bespeak 
Life's  limits;  no!  but  he  whose  memory 
Is  thickest  set  with  those  delicious  scenes 
'Tis  sweet  to  ponder  o'er  when  even  falls. 


PRESS    ON".  69 


(Park  ^enjami/k 


RESS  on  !  surmount  the  rocky  steeps, 

Climb  boldly  o'er  the  torrent's  arch  ; 
He  fails  alone  who  feebly  creeps  ! 

He  wins  who  dares  the  hero's  march. 
Be  thou  a  hero  !  let  thy  might 

Tramp  on  eternal  snows  its  way. 
And,  through  the  ebon  walls  of  night. 

Hew  down  a  passage  unto  day.  . 

Press  on !  if  once  and  twice  thy  feet 

Slip  back  and  stumble,  harder  try ; 
From  him  who  never  dreads  to  meet 

Danger  and  death,  they're  sure  to  fly. 
To  coward  ranks  the  bullet  speeds, 

While  on  their  breast  who  never  quail. 
Gleams,  guardian  of  chivalric  deeds, 

Bright  courage,  like  a  coat  of  mail. 

Press  on  !  if  Fortune  play  thee  false 

To-day,  to-morrow  she  '11  be  true  ; 
Whom  now  she  sinks,  she  now  exalts. 

Taking  old  gifts  and  granting  new. 
The  wisdom  of  the  present  hour 

Makes  up  the  follies  past  and  gone  ; 
To  weakness,  strength  succeeds,  and  power 

From  frailty  sprin.gs!     Press  on,  press  on! 


70  PROPOSAL. 


Therefore,  press  on,  and  reach  the  goal, 

And  gain  the  pr'ze,  and  wear  the  crown ; 
Faint  not,  for  to  the  steadfast  soul 

Come  wealth,  and  honor,  and  renown.. 
To  thine  own  self  be  true,  and  keep 

Thy  mind  from  sloth,  thy  heart  from  soil, 
Press  on,  and  thou  shalt  surely  reap 

A  heavenly  harvest  fo;  thy  toil. 


— H^@^a£^^4N — 


^ayard  Tcuylc^, 

HE  violet  loves  a  sunny  bank, 

The  cowslip  loves  the  lea, 
The  scarlet  creeper  loves  the  elm, 
\^^  But  I  love  —  thee. 

The  sunshine  kisses  mount  and  vale, 

The  stars  they  kiss  the  sea, 
The  west  winds  kiss  the  clover  bloom. 
But  I  kiss  —  thee. 

The  oriole  weds  his  mottled  mate, 

The  lily's  bride  o'  the  bee  ; 
Heaven's  marriage  ring  is  round  the  earth,  ■ 
Shall  I  wed  thee  ? 


RAPHAEL'S   ACCOUNT   OF   THE   CREATION.  71 


JUilion. 

EAVEN  opened  wide 

)Hor  ever-during  gates  —  harmonious  sound  — 
On  i^olden  hinges  moving,  to  let  forth 
Tlie  King  of  Glory,  in  his  powerful  Word 
And  Spirit,  coming  to  create  new  worlds. 
On  heavenly  ground  they  stood  ;  and,  from  the  shore 
Tiiey  viewed  the  vast,  immeasurable  abyss, 
Outrageous  as  a  sea,  dark,  wasteful,  wild. 
Up  fi'om  the  bottom  turned  by  furious  winds. 
And  surging  waves,  as  mountains,  to  assault 
Heaven's  height,  and  with  the  centre  mix  the  pole. 

•'Silence,  ye  troubled  waves,  and,  thou  deep,  peace," 

Said  then  the  omnilic  Word;   "  your  discord  flr4!" 

Nor  staid,  but,  on  the  wings  of  cherubim 

Uplifted,  in  paternal  glory  rode 

Far  into  Chaos,  and  the  world  unborn: 

For  Chaos  heard  his  voice;  him  all  his  train 

Followed  in  briglit  procession,  to  behold 

Creation,  and  tlie  wonders  of  his  might. 

Then  staid  the  fervid  wheels,  and  in  his  hand 

He  took  the  golden  compasses,  prepared 

In  God's  eternal  store,  to  circumscribe 

This  universe,  and  all  created  things; 

One  foot  he  centred,  and  the  other  turned 

Round  through  the  vast  profundity  obscure. 


72  RAPHAEL'S    ACCOUNT   OF  THE   CREATION. 

And  said,  "  Thus  far  extend,  thus  far  thy  bounds, 
This  be  thy  just  circumference,  O  world!" 
Thus  God  the  heaven  created,  thus  the  earth. 
Matter  unformed  and  void ;  darlvness  profound 
Covered  the  abyss ;  but  on  the  watery  calm 
His  brooding  wings  the  Spirit  of  God  outspread, 
And  vital  virtue  infused,  and  vital  warmth 
Throughout  the  fluid  mass. 

Then  founded,  then  conglobed 
Like  things  to  like,  the  rest  to  several  place 
Dispai'ted,  and  between  spun  out  the  air ; 
And  earth,  self-balanced,  on  her  centre  hung. 

"  Let  there  be  light,"  said  God;  and  forthwith  light 

Ethereal,  first  of  things,  quintessence  pure, 

Sprung  from  the  deep,  and  from  her  native  east, 

To  journey  tln'ough  tlie  airy  gloom  began, 

Sphered  in  a  radiant  cloud ;  for  yet  the  sun 

Was  not ;  she  in  a  cloudy  tabernacle 

Sojourned  the  while.     God  saw  the  light  was  good, 

And  light  from  darkness,  by  the  hemisphere. 

Divided:  liglit  the  day,  and  darkness  night. 

He  named ;  thus  was  the  first  day  even  and  morn ; 

Nor  passed  uncelebrated,  nor  unsung 

B}^  the  celestial  choir.s,  when  orient  light 

Exhaling  first  from  darkness  tliey  beheld ; 

Birthday  of  heaven  and  eartli :  Avitli  joy  and  shout 

The  hollow  universal  orb  tliey  filled, 

And  touched  their  golden  liar])s,  and  hymning  praised 

God  and  his  works;  Creator  him  thc^y  sung, 

Both  when  first  evening  was,  and  when  first  morn. 


DARKNESS.  73 


gyron 


HAD  a  dream,  which  was  not  all  a  dream , 
The  bright  sun  was  extinguished,  and  the  stars 
Did  wander  dai-kling  in  the  eternal  space, 
Rayless  and  pathless,  and  the  icy  earth 
Swung  blind  and  blackening  in  the  moonless  air. 
Morn  came,  and  went,  and  came,  and  brought  no  daT 
And  men  forgot  their  passions  in  the  dread 
Of  this  their  desolation;  and  all  hearts 
Were  chilled  into  a  selfish  prayer  for  light; 
And  they  did  live  by  watch-fires,  and  the  thrones, 
The  palaces  of  crowned  kings,  the  huts. 
The  habitations  of  all  things  which  dwell, 
Were  burned  for  beacons ;  cities  were  consumed. 
And  men  were  gathered  round  their  blazing  homes 
To  look  once  more  into  each  other's  face; 
Happy  were  those  who  dwelt  within  the  eye 
Of  the  volcanoes,  and  their  mountain-torch  : 
A  fearful  hope  was  all  the  world  contained; 
Forests  were  set  on  fire,  but  hour  by  hour 
They  fell  and  faded,  and  the  crackling  trunks 
Extinguished  with  a  crash,  and  all  was  black. 
The  brows  of  men  by  the  despairing  light 
Wore  an  uneartldy  aspect,  as  by  fits 
The  flashes  fell  upon  them:  some  lay  down 
And  hid  their  eyes,  and  wept;  and  some  did  rest 


74  DARKNESS. 


Their  cliins  upon  their  clinched  hands,  and  sighed ; 

And  others  hurried  to  and  fro,  and  fed 

Their  funeral  piles  with  fuel,  and  looked  up 

With  mad  disquietude  on  the  dull  sky, 

The  pall  of  a  past  world,  and  then  again 

With  curses  cast  them  down  ujjon  the  dust. 

And  gnashed  their  teeth,  and  howled;  the  wild  bird* 

shrieked. 
And,  tei-rified,  did  flutter  on  the  ground. 
And  flap  their  useless  wings ;  the  wildest  brutes 
Came  tame  and  tremulous ;  and  vipers  crawled 
And  twined  themselves  among  the  multitude. 
Hissing,  but  stingless;  they  were  slain  for  food; 
And  War,  which  for  a  moment  was  no  more. 
Did  glut  himself  again ;  a  meal  was  bought 
With  blood,  and  each  sat  siillenly  apart, 
Go(;ging  himself  in  gloom;  no  love  was  left; 
All  earth  was  but  one  thought,  and  that  was  death, 
Immediate  and  inglorious ;  and  the  pang 
Of  famine  fed  upon  all  entrails  —  men 
Died,  and  their  bones  were  tombless  as  the  flesh; 
The  meagre  by  the  meagre  were  devoured ; 
Even  dogs    assailed  their  masters,  all  save  one; 
And  lie  was  faithful  to  a  corse,  and  kept 
The  lairds  and  beasts  and  famished  men  at  bay. 
Till  hunger  clung  them,  or  the  droojjing  dead 
Lured  their  lank  jaws;  himself  sought  out  no  food. 
But  it  was  piteous  and  perpetual  moan. 
And  a  quick,  desolate  cry,  licking  the  hand 
Which  answered  not  with  a  caress  —  he  died. 
The  crowd  was  famished  by  degrees;  ])ut  two 


DARKNESS. 


75 


Of  an  enormous  city  did  survive, 

And  they  were  enemies;  they  met  beside 

The  dying  embers  of  an  altar-place, 

Where  had  been  henped  a  mass  of  holy  things 

For  an  uniioly  usage ;   they  raked  up. 

And  shivering,  scraped  with  their  cold,  skeleton  hands 

The  feeble  ashes,  and  their  feeble  breath 

Blew  for  a  little  life,  and  made  a  flame 

Which  was  a  mockery;  then  they  lifted  up 

Their  eyes  as  it  grew  brighter,  and  beheld 

Each  other's  aspects  — saw,  and  shrieked,  and  died. 

Even  of  their  mortal  hideousness  they  died. 

Unknowing  who  he  was  upon  whose  brow 

Famine  had  written  Fiend.     The  world  was  void, 

The  populous  and  the  powerful  was  a  lump, 

Seasonless,  herbless,  treeless,  manless,  lifeless  — 

A  lump  of  death,  a  chaos  of  hard  clay. 

The  rivers,  lakes,  and  ocean  all  stood  still. 

And  nothing  stirred  within  their  silent  depths ; 

Ships,  sailorless,  lay  rotting  on  the  sea. 

And  their  masts  fell  down  piecemeal;  as  they  dropped 

They  slept  on  the  abyss  without  a  surge ; 

Tlie  waves  were  dead ;  the  tides  were  in  their  grave ; 

The  moon,  their  mistress,  liad  expired  before ; 

The  winds  were  withered  in  the  stagnant  air. 

And  the  clouds  perislied ;  Darkness  had  no  need 

Of  aid  from  them  —  she  was  the  universe. 


■+S^|t^ 


76  .  THE   TRUE   ARISTOCRAT. 


Btewari 


I 


HO  are  the  nobles  of  the  earth. 
The  true  aristocx'ats, 


Who  need  not  bow  tlieir  heads  to  lords, 

Nor  doff  to  kings  their  hats? 
Who  are  they  but  the  men  of  toil, 

The  mighty  and  the  free, 
Whose  hearts  and  hands  subdue  th"  earth, 

And  compass  all  the  sea? 

Who  are  they  but  the  men  of  toil, 

Who  cleave  the  forest  down. 
And  plant,  amid  the  wilderness. 

The  hamlet  and  the  town,  — 
Who  fight  the  battles,  bear  the  scars, 

And  give  the  world  its  crown 
Of  name,  and  fame,  and  histoiy, 

And  pomp  of  old  renown? 

These  claim  no  gaud  of  heraldry, 

And  scorn  the  knighting  rod ; 
Their  coats  of  arms  are  noble  deeds. 

Their  peerage  is  from  God ! 
They  take  not  from  ancestral  graves 

The  glory  of  their  name, 
But  win,  as  once  their  fathei's  won. 

The  laurel  wreath  of  fame. 


THE  SHIP. 


TATELY  yon  vessel  sails  adown  the  tide. 

To  some  far  distant  land  adventurous  bound; 
The  sailors'  busy  cries  from  side  to  side, 

Pealing,  among  the  echoing  rocks,  resound; 
A  patient,  thoughtless,  much-endiiring  band, 

Joyful  they  enter  on  their  ocean  way; 
With  shouts  exulting  leave  their  native  land. 
And  know  no  care  beyond  the  present  day. 
But  is  there  no  poor  mourner  left  behind, 

Who  sorrows  for  a  child  or  husband  there? 
Who  at  the  howling  of  the  midnight  wind 

Will  wake  and  tremble  in  her  boding  prayer.f* 
So  may  her  voice  be  heard,  and  Heaven  be  kind; 
Go,  gallant  ship,  and  be  thy  fortune  fair. 
*  *  *  * 

O  God,  have  mercy  in  this  dreadful  hour 
On  the  poor  mariner;  in  comfort  here. 
Safe  sheltered  as  I  am,  I  almost  fear 
The  blast  that  rages  with  resistless  power. 

What  were  it  now  to  toss  upon  the  waves. 
The  maddened  waves,  and  know  no  succor  near. 
The  howling  of  the  storm  alone  to  hear. 

And  the  wild  sea  that  to  the  tempest  raves; 
To  gaze  amid  the  horrors  of  the  night. 
And  only  see  the  billows'  gleaming  light; 

Then,  in  the  dread  of  death,  to  think  of  her 
Who,  as  she  listens,  sleepless,  to  the  gale. 


78  THE   OLD   MAN   BY   THE   KUOOK. 


Puts  up  a  silent  prayer,  and  waxes  jxale! 
O  God,  have  mercy  on  tlie  mariner. 

She  comes  majestic  with  her  swelling  sails, 
Tlie  gallant  ship ;  along  her  watery  way 

Homeward  she  drives  before  the  favoring  gales: 
Now  flirting  at  their  length  the  streamers  i)lay, 

And  now  they  ripple  with  the  rnfliing  breeze. 
Hark  to  the  sailors'  shouts !  the  rocks  rebound, 
Thundering  in  eclioes  to  the  joyful  sound. 

Long  have  they  voyaged  o'er  tlie  distant  seas; 
And  what  a  heart-delight  they  feel  at  last, 
So  many  toils,  so  many  dangers  past. 

To  view  the  port  desired,  he  only  knows 
Wlio  on  the  stormy  deep  for  many  a  day 
Hath  tossed,  a-weary  of  his  watery  way, 

And  watched,  all  anxious,  every  wind  that  IjIows. 


Woj^dsivoHh. 


OWN"  to  the  vale  this  water  steers ;  liow  merrily 

it  goes! 
'Twill  murmur  on  a  thousand  years,  and  How  as 
iG^q)^  now  it  flows ; 

And  here,  on  this  delightful  day,  I  cannot  choose 

but  think 
How   oft,  vigorous   man,   I  lay  beside  this  foun- 

twin's  brink. 


THE  BRIDE.  79 


My   eyes  are  filled  with  childish  tears,  my  heart  is  idly 

stirred, 
For   the  same   sound  is  in  my  ears  that  in  those  days  I 

heard. 


■^<^=si^^Rf^^^S*^ 


JSrs.   Bigoumey 

CAME,  but  she  was  gone. 

In  her  fair  home, 
There  lay  her  lute,  just  as  she  touched  it  last, 
At  summer  twilight,  when  the  woodbine  cups 
Filled  with  pure  fragrance.     On  her  favorite  seat 
Lay  the  still-open  workbox,  and  that  book 
Which  last  she  read,  its  pencilled  margin  marked 
By  an  ill-quoted  passage  —  traced,  perchance. 
With  hand  unconscious  while  her  lover  spoke 
That  dialect,  which  brings  forgetfulness 
Of  all  beside.     It  was  the  cherished  home 
Where,  from  her  childhood,  she  had  been  the  star 
Of  hope  and  joy. 

I  came  —  and  she  was  gone. 
Yet  I  had  seen  lier  from  the  altar  led. 
With  silvery  veil  but  slightly  swept  aside, 
Tlie  fresh  young  rosebud  deepening  in  her  cheels 
And  on  her  brow  the  sweet  and  solemn  thought 
Of  one  who  gives  a  priceless  gift  away. 


80  THE    BKIDE. 


And  there  was  silence  'mid  the  gathered  throng  : 
The  stranger,  and  the  hard  of  heart,  did  draw 
Their  breath  suppressed,  to  see  the  mother's  lip 
Turn  ghastly  pale,  and  the  majestic  sire 
Shrink  as  with  smothered  sorrow,  when  he  gave 
His  darling  to  an  untried  guardianship, 
And  to  a  far-off  clime. 

Haply  his  thought 
Traversed  the  giass-grown  prairies,  and  the  shore 
Of  the  cold  lakes  ;   or  those  o'erhanging  cliffs. 
And  pathless  mountain  top,  that  rose  to  bar 
Her  long-reared  mansion  from  the  anxious  eye 
Of  kindred  and  of  friend.     Even  triflers  felt 
How  strong  and  beautiful  is  woman's  love, 
That,  taking  in  its  hand  its  thornless  joys, 
The  tenderest  melodies  of  tuneful  years, 
Yea !  and  its  own  life  also  —  lays  them  all, 
Meek  and  unblenching,  on  a  mortal's  breast, 
Reserving  nought,  save  that  unspoken  hope 
Which  hath  its  root  in  God. 

Mock  not  with  mirth 
A  scene  like  this,  ye  laughter-lovilng  ones  ; 
The  licensed  jester's  lip,  the  dancer's  heel  — 
What  do  they  here  ? 

Joy,  serious  and  sublime, 
Such  as  doth  nerve  the  energies  of  prayer, 
Should  swell  the  bosom  when  a  maiden's  hand, 
Filled  with  life's  dewy  flow'rets,  girdeth  on 
That  harness,  which  the  ministry  of  Death 
Alone  unlooses,  but  whose  fearful  power 
May  stamp  the  sentence  of  Eternity. 


MAR^nOX. 


SI 


8ir   Walter  Scoti. 


OT  far  advanced  was  morning  day. 
When  Marmion  did  his  troop  array 

To  Surrey's  camp  to  ride  ; 
He  had  safe  conduct  for  his  band, 
Beneath  the  royal  seal  and  hand, 

iVnd  Douglas  gave  a  guide  : 
The  ancient  Earl,  with  stately  grace, 
Would  Clara  on  her  palfrey  place, 
And  whisper'd  in  an  under-tone, 
♦'  Let  the  hawk  stoop,  his  prey  is  flown." 
The  train  from  out  the  castle  drew. 
But  Marmion  stopped  to  bid  adieu  :  — 

"  Though  something  I  might  plain,"  he  said, 
"  Of  cold  respect  to  stranger  guest, 
Sent  hither  by  your  King's  behest. 

While  in  Tantallon's  towers  I  staid ; 
Part  we  in  friendship  from  your  land. 
And,  noble  Earl,  receive  my  hand."  — 
But  Douglas  round  him  drew  his  cloak. 
Folded  his  arms,  and  thus  he  spoke  :  — 
"  My  manors,  halls,  and  bowers,  shall  still 
Be  open,  at  my  Sovereign's  will. 
To  each  one  whom  he  lists,  howe'er 
Unmeet  to  be  the  owner's  peer. 


82  MARMION. 


My  castles  are  my  King's  alone, 
From  turret  to  foundation-stone  — 
The  hand  of  Douglas  is  his  own; 
And  never  shall  in  friendly  grasp 
The  hand  of  such  as  Marmion  clasp."  — 

Burn'd  Marmion's  swarthy  cheek  like  fire, 
And  shook  his  very  frame  for  ire, 

And  —  "  This  to  me  !  "  he  said,  — 
"  An  'twere  not  for  thy  hoary  beard, 
Such  hand  as  Marmion's  had  not  spared 

To  cleave  the  Douglas'  head  ! 
And,  first,  I  tell  thee,  haughty  Peer, 
He,  who  does  England's  message  here. 
Although  the  meanest  in  her  state, 
May  well,  proud  Angus,  be  thy  mate : 
And,  Douglas,  more  I  tell  thee  here, 

Even  in  thy  pitch  of  pride. 
Here  in  thy  hold,  thy  vassals  near, 
(Nay,  never  look  upon  your  lord. 
And  lay  your  hands  upon  your  sword,) 

I  tell  thee  thou'rt  defied  ! 
And  if  thou  said'st  I  am  not  peer 
To  any  lord  in  Scotland  here. 
Lowland  or  Highland,  far  or  near, 

Lord  Angus,  thou  hast  lied  !  " 
On  the  Earl's  cheek  the  flush  of  rage 
O'ercame  the  ashen  hue  of  age  : 
Fierce  he  broke  forth,  —  "  And  darest  thou,  then, 
To  beard  the  lion  in  his  den, 

The  Doufjlas  in  his  hall  ? 


MARMION. 


88 


And  hopest  thou  hence  unscathed  to  go  ?  — 

No,  by  Saint  Bride  of  Bothwell,  no  ! 

Up  drawbridge,  grooms  —  what,  Warder,  ho  ! 

Let  the  portcullis  fall." 
Lord  Marmion  turn'd,  —  well  was  his  need, 
And  dash'd  the  rowels  in  his  steed. 
Like  arrow  through  the  archway  sprung. 
The  ponderous  grate   behind  him  rung  : 
To  pass  there  was  such  scanty  room, 
The  bars,  descending,  razed  his  plume. 

The  steed  along  the  drawbridge  flies. 

Just  as  it  trembled  on  the  rise  ; 

Nor  lighter  does  the  swallow  skim 

Along  the  smooth  lake's  level  brim : 

And  when  Lord  Marmion  reach'd  his  band 

He  halts,  and  turn'd  with  clench'd  hand. 

And  shout  of  loud  defiance  pours. 

And  shook  his  gauntlet  at  the  towers. 

"  Horse  !  horse  ! "  the  Douglas  cried,  "  and  chase ! ' 

But  soon  he  rein'd  his  fury's  pace : 

"  A  royal  messenger  he  came. 

Though  most  unworthy  of  the  name.  — 

A  letter  forged  !     Saint  Jude  to  speed  I 

Did  ever  knight  so  foul  a  deed  ? 

At  first  in  heart  it  liked  me  ill. 

When  the  King  praised  his  clerkly  skilL 

Thanks  to  Saint  Bothan,  son  of  mine. 

Save  Grawain,  ne'er  could  pen  a  line. 

So  swore  I,  and  I  swear  it  still. 

Let  my  boy-bishop  fret  his  fill,  — 


84  THE  world's  wanderers. 

Saint  Mary  mend  my  fiery  mood  ! 
Old  age  ne'er  cools  the  Douglas  blood, 
I  thought  to  slay  him  where  he  stood. 
'Tis  pity  of  him  too,"  he  cried: 
"  Bold  can  he  speak,  and  fairly  ride, 
I  warrant  him  a  warrior  tried." 
With  this  his  mandate  he  recalls, 
And  slowly  seeks  his  castle  halls. 


Shelley 


ELL  me,  thou  star,  whose  wings  of  light 
j)  Speed  thee  in  thy  fiery  flight. 
In  what  cavern  of  the  night 

Will  thy  pinions  close  now  ? 

Tell  me,  moon,  thou  pale  and  gray 
Pilgrim  of  heaven's  homeless  way. 
In  what  depth  of  night  or  day 
Seekest  thou  repose  now  ? 

Weary  wind,  who  wanderest 
Like  the  world's  rejected  guest, 
Hast  thou  still  some  secret  nest 
On  the  tree  or  billow  ? 


SPEAK    GENTLY. 


fincm. 


PEAK  gently ;  in  this  world  of  ours, 

Where  clouds  o'ersweep  the  sky, 
And  sweetest  flowers  and  fairest  forms 

Are  ever  first  to  die  ; 
Where  friendship  changes,  and  the  ties 

That  bind  fond  hearts  are  riven, 
Mild,  soothing  words  are  like  the  stars 

That  light  the  midnight  heaven. 


There  are  enough  of  tears  on  earth, 

Enough  of  toil  and  care ; 
And  e'en  the  lightest  heart  hath  much 

To  suffer  and  to  bear. 
Within  each  spirit's  hidden  depths 

Some  sweet  hope  withered  lies. 
From  whose  soft,  faded  bloom  we  turn 

In  sadness  to  the  skies. 

Y*    Speak  gently,  then,  and  win  the  smiles 

Back  to  the  shadowed  face. 
And  bid  the  clouded  brow  resume 

Its  fresh  and  youthful  grace. 
Thy  gentle  words,  perchance,  may  guide 

A  wanderer  to  the  sky. 
Or  teach  some  earth-bound  soul  to  soar 

Above  the  things  that  die.  ^  t 


86  WANING    SPIRIT. 


S^ 


Lead  gently  back  the  erring  feet 

That  love  perchance  to  stray  ; 
Thou  canst  not  know  how  long  they  strove 

Ere  leaving  virtue's  way  ; 
Nor  with  what  desolating  power 

Despair's  dark  phantom  came, 

And,  with  her  sad  touch,  made  the  heart 

A  desert,  seared  with  flame. /_ 

/ 

Within  that  desert  there  is  yet 

Some  pure  oasis-spot, 
Formed  of  sweet  memories  of  scenes 

That  ne'er  can  be  forgot. 
For  that  bright  soul,  with  care  now  worn, 

Bowed  down  though  it  may  be, 
The  selfsame  Saviour  died,  who  gave 

His  priceless  life  for  thee. 

■ ^^^5^ — 


Festus. 
— »-S'Saei< — 

T  is  sad 

'To  see  the  light  of  beauty  wane  away. 
Know  eyes  are  dimming,   bosoms  shrivelling,  feet 
Losing  their  spring,  and  limbs  their  lily  roundness  J 
But  it  is  worse  to  feel  our  heart-spring  gone, 
To  lose  hope,  care  not  for  the  coming  thing. 
And  feel  all  things  go  to  decay  with  us, 
As  't  were  our  life's  eleventh  month. 


MORNING    AMONG    TIIK    HILLS. 


©rilat  aEacjaiip  tM 


*© 


(PercivaL 


NIGHT  had  passed  away  among  the  hills  ; 
And  now  the  first  faint  tokens  of  the  dawn 
Showed  in  the  east.      The  bright  and  dewy  star 
Whose  mission  is  to  usher  in  the  morn. 
Looked  through  the  cool  air,  like  a  blessed  thing 
In  a  far  purer  world  :   below,  there  lay, 
Wrapped  round  a  woody  mountain  tranquilly, 
A  misty  cloud. 

Its  edges  caught  the  light 
That  now  came  up  from  out  the  unseen  depth 
Of  the  full  fount  of  day ;   and  they  were  laced 
With  colors  ever  brightening.     I  had  waked 
From  a  long  sleep  of  many  changing  dreams, 
And  now  in  the  fresh  forest  air  I  stood, 
Nerved  to  another  day  of  wandering. 
Below,  there  lay  a  far-extended  sea, 
Rolling  in  feathery  waves.     The  wind  blew  o'er  it 
And  tossed  it  round  the  high-ascending  rocks, 
And  swept  it  through  the  half-hidden  forest  tops. 
Till,  like  an  ocean  waking  into  storm. 
It  heaved  and  weltered.      Gloriously  the  light 
Crested  its  billows ;  and  those  craggy  islands 
Shone  on  it  like  to  palaces  of  spar. 
Built  on  a  sea  of  pearl. 

The  sky  bent  round 
The  awful  dome  of  a  most  mighty  temple, 


88  MORNING    AAIONG    THE    HILLS. 

Built  by  Omnipotent  hands,  for  nothing  less 
Than  infinite  worship.     There  I  stood  in  silence  ; 
I  had  no  words  to  tell  the  mingled  thoughts 
Of  wonder  and  of  joy  which  then  came  o'er  me. 
Even  with  a  whirlwind's  rush. 

So  beautiful, 
So  bright,  so  glorious  !     Such  a  majesty 
In  yon  pure  vault !     So  many  dazzling  tints 
In  yonder  waste  of  waves,  —  so  like  the  ocean 
With  its  unnumbered  islands  there  encircled 
By  foaming  surges  :  — 

Soon  away  the  mist-cloud  rolled, 
"Wave  after  wave.     They  climbed  the  highest  rocks, 
Poured  over  them  in  surges,  and  then  rushed 
Down  glens  and  valleys  like  a  winter's  torrent. 
Dashed  instant  to  the  plain.     It  seemed  a  moment, 
And  they  were  gone,  as  if  the  touch  of  fire 
At  once  dissolved  them  ! 

Then  I  found  myself 
Midway  in  air ;  ridge  after  ridge  below 
Descended  with  their  opulence  of  woods 
Even  to  the  dim-seen  level,  where  a  lake 
Flashed  in  the  sun  ;   and  from  it  wound  a  line, 
Now  silvery  bright,  even  to  the  furthest  verge 
Of  the  encircling  hills. 

A  waste  of  rocks 
Was  round  me,  — but  below,  how  beautiful! 
How  rich  the  plain  !  a  wilderness  of  groves 
And  ripening  harvests  ;   while  the  sky  of  June, 
The  soft,  blue  sky  of  June,  and  the  cool  air 
That  makes  it  then  a  luxury  to  live 


THE    DEATH    BED. 


89 


Only  to  breathe  it,  and  the  busy  echo 
Of  cascades  and  the  voice  of  mountain  brooks 
Stole  with  so  gentle  meaning  to  my  heart, 
That  where  I  stood  seemed  heaven  ! 


rU  Beam  Bid. 


Hood. 


'8368' 


[ft  E  watched  her  breathing  through  the  nightj 
^     Her  breathing,  soft  and  low, 
y^V/KijM  As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 
Kept  heaving  to  and  fro, 

So  silently  we  seemed  to  speak, 

So  slowly  moved  about. 
As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 

To  eke  her  living  out. 

Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears 

Our  fears  our  hopes  belied  ; 
We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept, 

And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

For  when  the  morn  came  dim  and  sad, 
And  chill  with  early  showers, 

Her  quiet  eyelids  closed  ;  —  she  had 
Another  morn  than  ours. 


90  MY  darlings'  shoes. 


Jlnon. 


\0T)  bless  the  little  feet  that  nevev  go  astray. 
For  the  little  shoes  are  empty  in  my  closet  laid 

away ! 
Sometimes  I  take  one  in  my  hand,  forgetting  till 

T  see 
It  is  a  little  half-worn  shoe,   not  large  enough 
for  me; 

And  all  at  once  I  feel  a  sense  of  bitter  loss  and  pain. 
As  sharp  as  when  two  years  ago  it  cut  my  heart  in  twain. 

O,  little  feet,  that  wearied  not,  I  wait  for  them  no  more. 
For  I  am   drifting  on  the  tide,  but  they  have  reached  the 

shore ; 
And   while   the  blinding  tear-drops  wet   these  little  shoes 

so  old, 
I  try  to  think  my  darlings'  feet  are  treading  streets  of  gold, 
And  so  I  lay  them  down  again,  but  alwaj-s  turn  to  say  — 
God  bless  the  little  feet  that  now  so  surely  cannot  stray. 

And  while  I  thus  am  standing,  I  almost  seem  to  see 
Two  little  forms  beside  me,  just  as  they  used  to  be; 
Two  little  faces  lifted  with  their  sweet  and  tender  eyes! 
Ah  me!     I   might    have    known   that  look   was   born   of 

Paradise. 
I  reach  my  arms  out  fondly,  but  they  clasp  the  empty  air! 
There  is  nothing  of  my  darlings  but  the  shoes  they  used 

to  wear. 


THE    COTTER  S    SATURDAY    NIGHT. 


91 


0,  the  bitterness  of  parting  cannot  be  done  away 
Till  I  meet  my  darlings  walking  where  their  feet  can  never 

stray ; 
When  T  no  more  am  drifted  upon  the  surging  tide, 
But  with  them  safely  landed  upon  the  river  side ; 
Be  patient,  heart,  while  waiting  to  see  their  shining  way, 
For  the  little  feet  in  the  golden  street  can  never  go  astray. 


Inscribed  to  Robert  Aiken.  Esq. 


^ums. 


"Let  not  Ambition  mock  tlieir  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure  ; 
Nor  Grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor." 

Gray. 


/"^^^^  loved,  my  honored,  much  respected  friend, 
(^  ItHIrL      No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays ; 

,  With  honest  pride  I  scorn  each  selfish  end. 
My   dearest    meed    a   friend's    esteem    and 

praise ; 
To  you  I  sing  in  simple  Scottish  lays. 
The  lowly  train  in  life's  sequestered  scene ; 
The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless  ways  ; 
What  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been; 
Ah  !  though  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there,  I  ween. 


92  THE    cotter's    SATURDAY   KIGHT. 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh  ; 
The  short'ning  winter  day  is  near  a  close  ; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh, 
The  black'ning  trains  o'  craws  to  their  repose  ; 
The  toil-worn  cotter  frae  his  labor  goes,  — 
This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end, — 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes, 
Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 
And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does  homeward  bend 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view. 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree ; 
Th'  expectant  wee  things,  toddlin,  stacher  through, 
To  meet  their  dad  wi'  flichterin  noise  and  glee. 
His  wee  bit  ingle  blinkin  bonnily, 
His  clean  hearthstane,  his  thriftie  wifie's  smile, 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee. 
Does  a'  his  weary,  carking  cares  beguile, 
An'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labor  an'  his  toil. 

Belyve,  the  elder  bairns  come  drappin  in. 
At  service  out  amang  the  farmers  roun' ; 
Some  ca'  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie  rin 
A  cannie  errand  to  a  neebor  town. 
Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman  grown, 
In  youthful  bloom,  love  sparkliu  in  her  e'e, 
Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  show  a  braw-new  gown, 
Or  deposit  her  sair-won  penny  fee, 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 

Wi'  joy  unfeigned,  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 
An'  each  for  other's  weelfare  kindly  spiers; 


THE    cotter's    SATURDAY    NIGHT.  93 

The  social  hours,  swift-winged,  unnoticed,  fleet; 
Each  tells  the  unco's  that  he  sees  or  hears ; 
The  parents  partial  eye  their  hopeful  years  ; 
Anticipation  forward  points  the  view; 
The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  an'  her  sheers, 
Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel's  the  new; 
The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due. 

Their  master's  an'  their  mistress's  command, 
The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey  ; 
An'  mind  their  labors  wi'  an  eydeut  hand. 
An'  ne'er  though  out  o'  sight  to  jauk  or  play ; 
"  An'  0,  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway ! 
An'  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  an'  night ! 
Leest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray, 
Implore  his  counsel  and  assisting  might ; 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord  aright ! " 

But  hark  !  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door  ; 
Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same, 
Teils  how  a  neebor  lad  came  o'er  the  moor, 
To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 
Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e,  and  flush  her  cheek  ; 
With  heart-struck,  anxious  care  inquires  his  name, 
While  Jenny  hafflins  is  afraid  to  speak  ; 
VVeel  pleased  the  mother  hears  it's  nae  wild,  worthless 
rake. 

Wi'  kindly  welcome  Jenny  brings  him  ben  ; 
A  strappan  youth  ;  he  takes  the  mother's  eye  ; 
Blithe  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill  ta'en  ; 
The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and  kye. 


94  THE    cotter's    SATURDAY    NIGHT. 

The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erflows  wi'  joy. 
But  blate  and  laithfu',  scarce  can  weel  behave; 
The  mother  wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy 
What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu'  and  sae  grave  ; 
Weel  pleased  to  think  her  bairn's  respected  like  the  lave 

O  happy  love  !  where  love  like  this  is  found  ! 
0  heartfelt  raptures  !  bliss  beyond  compare  ! 
I've  pac^d  much  this  weary,  mortal  round. 
And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare  — 
"  If  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure  spare, 
One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 
'Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair 
In  other's  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale. 
Beneath  the   milk-white   thorn  that  scents  the  evening 
gale." 

Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart, 
A  wretch,  a  villain,  lost  to  love  and  truth, 
That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art, 
Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth? 
Curse  on  his  perjured  arts;  dissembling,  smooth. 
Are  honor,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exiled  ; 
Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 
Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'er  their  child. 
Then  paints  the  ruined  maid,  and  their  distraction  wild  1 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board, 
The  halesome  parritch,  chief  o'  Scotia's  food; 
The  soupe  their  only  Hawkie  does  afford, 
That  yont  the  hallan  snugly  chows  her  cood  : 
The  dame  brings  forth  in  complimental  mood, 


THE    cotter's    SATURDAY    NIGHT.  95 


To  grace  the  lad,  laer  weel-hained  kebbuck,  fell, 
An'  aft  he's  prest,  an'  aft  he  ca's  it  guid  ; 
The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell, 
How  'twas  a  towmoLd  auld,  sin'  lint  was  i'  the  bell. 

The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face, 
They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wide ; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal  grace. 
The  big  ha'  Bible,  ance  his  father's  pride  ; 
His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside. 
His  lyart  hafifets  wearing  thin  an'  bare : 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide, 
He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care  ; 
And,  "  Let  us  worship  God !  "  he  says,  with  solemn  air 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise  : 
They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim. 
Perhaps  Dundee's  wild,  warbling  measures  rise, 
Or  plaintive  Martyrs,  worthy  of  the  name  ; 
Or  noble  Elgin  beats  the  heavenward  flame, 
The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays  : 
Compared  with  these  Italian  trills  are  tame : 
The  tickled  ears  no  heartfelt  raptures  raise, 
Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page, 
How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high ; 
Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 
With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny  ; 
Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 
Beneath  the  strokes  of  Heaven's  avenging  ire; 
Or  Job's  pathetic  plaint  and  wailing  cry  ; 


96         THE  COTTEk's  SATURDAY  NIGHl 


Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire  ; 
Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme, 
How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed ; 
How  He,  who  bore  in  heaven  the  second  name, 
Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  his  head ; 
How  his  first  followers  and  servants  sped ; 
The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a  land , 
How  he  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 
Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand. 
And  heard  great  Bab'lon's  doom  pronounced  by  Heaven's 
command. 

Then  kneeling  down,  to  heaven's  eternal  King, 
The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays : 
Hope  "  springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing," 
That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days. 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 
No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 
Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise. 
In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear  ; 
While  circling  time  moves  round  in  an  eternal  sphere. 

Compared  with  this,  how  poor  Religion's  pride. 
In  all  the  pomp  of  method,  and  of  art, 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide 
Devotion's  every  grace,  except  the  heart! 
The  Power,  incensed,  the  pageant  will  desert, 
The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole; 
But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart. 
May  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language  of  the  soul, 
And  in  his  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor  enroll. 


THE  COTTEk'S   SATURDAY   NIGHT.  97 

Then  homeward  all  take  ofF  their  several  way; 
The  youngling  cottagers  retii'e  to  rest; 
The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 
And  profter  np  to  Heaven  the  warm  request 
That  lie,  who  stills  the  raven's  clamorous  nest, 
And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flowery  pride. 
Would,  in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees  the  best, 
For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide; 
But  chiefly  in  their  hearts  with  gi-ace  divine  preside. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  grandeur  springs, 
That  makes  her  loved  at  home,  revered  abroad; 
Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings; 
"An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God;  " 
And  certes,  in  fair  Virtue's  heavenly  road. 
The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind. 
What  is  a  lordling's  pomp?  a  cumbrous  load, 
Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind. 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refined. 

O  Scotia,  my  dear,  my  native  soil. 
For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is  sent, 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 
Be  blessed  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet  content; 
And  O,  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 
From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile ; 
Then,  liowe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 
A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while, 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much-loved  isle. 

O  Thou  who  poured  the  patriotic  t'de 

That  streamed  through  Wallace's  undaunted  heart; 


HAMLET'S   SOLILOQUY, 


Who  dared  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride. 

Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part, 

(The  patriot's  God,  peculiarly  thou  art, 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward!) 

O  never,  never,  Scotia's  realm  desert : 

But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot  bard. 

In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard. 


ItMlifs  iQlilofiiy, 


8hakespr-ar» 


O  be,  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the  question :  — 
Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind,  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune. 
Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles. 
And,  by  opposing,  end  them.     To  die  —  to  sleep; 
No  more ;  and,  by  a  sleep,  to  say  we  end 
The  heart-ache,  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 
That  flesh  is  heir  to,  —  'tis  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wished.     To  die  —  to  sleep; 
To  sleep!  perchance  to  dream;  a}',  there's  the  rub; 
For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come, 
When  we  have  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil. 
Must  give  us  pause.     There's  the  respect. 
That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life; 
For  who  would  bear  tlie  whips  and  scorns  of  time, 
The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  contumely, 
The  pangs  of  despised  love,  the  law's  delay, 


IIAI'I'INESS.  99 


The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 
That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes, 
When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 
With  a  bare  bodkin?     Who  would  fjxrdels  bear. 
To  grunt  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life, 
But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  death  — 
The  undiscovered  country,  from  whose  bourn 
No  traveller  returns  —  puzzles  the  will, 
And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have, 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of ! 
Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all ; 
And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 
Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought; 
And  enterprises  of  great  pith  and  moment, 
With  this  regard,  their  currents  turn  awry, 
And  lose  the  name  of  action. 


leipmiss. 


KeUe. 


HERE  are  in  this  rude  stunning  tide 

Of  luiraan  care  and  crime. 
With  whom  the  melodies  abide 

Of  the  everlasting  chime. 
Who  carry  music  in  their  heart, 
Through  dusty  lane  and  wrangling  mart, 
Plying  their  daily  toil  with  busier  feet, 
B^icause  their  secret  souls  a  holy  strain  repeat. 


100  THE    TRUMPET. 


J/Lrs.  Hemana. 


HE  trumpet's  voice  hath  roused  the  land' 

Light  up  the  beacon-pyre  ; 
A  hundred  hills  have  seen  the  brand, 
g)  And  waved  the  sign  of  fire  ; 

A  hundred  banners  to  the  breeze 

Their  gorgeous  folds  have  cast  ; 
And  hark !  was  that  the  sound  of  seas  ? 
A  king  to  war  went  past. 

The  chief  is  arming  in  his  hall, 

The  peasant  by  his  hearth  ; 
The  mourner  hears  the  thrilling  call, 

And  rises  from  the  earth. 
The  mother,  on  her  first-born  son. 

Looks  with  a  boding  eye  ; 
They  come  not  back,  though  all  be  won. 

Whose  young  hearts  leap  so  high. 

The  bard  hath  ceased  his  song,  and  bound 

The  falchion  to  his  side  ; 
E'en  for  the  marriage  altar  crowned. 

The  lover  quits  his  bride, 
And  all  this  haste,  and  change,  and  feaj 

By  earthly  clarion  spread  ! 
How  will  it  be  when  kingdoms  hear 

The  blast  that  wakes  the  dead  ? 


ODE  OK  Cecilia's  day.  101 


's  Baf, 

Qjryden 


ROM  harmony,  from  heavenly  hatmony, 

This  universal  frame  began  : 
When  nature  underneath  a  heap 

Of  jarring  atoms  lay, 
And  could  not  heave  her  head. 

The  tuneful  voice  was  heard  from  high, 
"  Arise,  ye  more  than  dead  !  " 

Then  cold,  and  hot,  and  moist,  and  dry, 
In  order  to  their  stations  leap, 
And  Music's  power  obey. 


From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony. 

This  universal  frame  began  ; 
From  harmony  to  harmony, 

Through  all  the  compass  of  the  notes,  it  ran, 

The  diapason  closing  full  in  man. 

What  passion  cannot  music  raise  and  quell? 
When  Jubal  struck  the  chorded  shell, 

His  listening  brethren  stood  around. 
And,  wondering,  on  their  faces  fell 

To  worship  that  celestial  sound. 
Less  than  a  god  they  thought  there  could  not  dweli 
Within  the  hollow  of  that  shell, 
That  spoke  so  sweetly  and  so  well. 
What  passion  cannot  music  raise  and  quell  ? 


102  ODE  ON  Cecilia's  day. 

The  trumpet's  loud  clangor 

Excites  us  to  arms, 
With  shrill  notes  of  anger, 

And  mortal  alarms. 
The  double,  double,  double  beat 

Of  the  thundering  drum 

Cries,  "  Hark  !  the  foes  come  ; 
Charge,  charge  !  'tis  too  late  to  retreat." 

The  soft,  complaiuing  flute 

In  dying  notes  discovers 

The  woes  of  hapless  lovers, 
Whose  dirge  is  whispered  by  the  warbling  lute. 
Sharp  violins  proclaim 

Their  jealous  pangs,  and  desperation, 

Fury,  frantic  indignation, 

Depths  of  pain  and  height  of  passion. 
For  the  fair,  disdainful  dame. 

But  0  !    what  art  can  teach, 
What  human  voice  can  reach, 

The  sacred  organ's  praise  ! 
Notes  inspiring  holy  love. 

Notes  that  wing  their  heavenly  ways 
To  mend  the  choirs  above. 

Orpheus  could  lead  the  savage  race, 

And  trees  uprooted  left  their  place. 
Sequacious  of  the  lyre  ; 
But  bright  Cecilia  raised  the  wonder  higher : 

When  to  her  organ  vocal  breath  was  given, 
An  angel  heard,  and  straight  appeared, 

Mistakinjir  earth  for  heaven. 


skater's  song.  103 


Ikater's  E@i2: 


§• 


fir 


WAY  and  away,  o'er  the  deep-sounding  tide, 
On  crystals  of  silver  we  sweep  and  we  glide; 
The  steel  is  onr  pinion,  our  roof  the  broad  blue, 
And  heaven's  pure  breezes  our  pathway  pursue. 
So,  joyfully,  brothers,  we  glide  and  we  sweep 
Away  and  away  o'er  life's  frozen  deep. 

Thou  golden-bright  palace,  whose  hand  arched  thee  o'er, 
And  stretched  out  behind  us  the  diamond-paved  floor, 
And  gave  us  the  steel  with  its  lightning-like  glance, 
Through  heavenly  chambers  to  float  and  to  dance  ? 
So,  joyfully,  brothers,  we  float  and  we  glide 
Through  the  heavenly  chambers  of  life  far  and  wide. 

Through  the  pale  mist  of  evening  the  sun  glimmers  still. 

And  lingers  awhile  on  the  brow  of  the  hill! 

But  now  he's  gone  down,  and  with  tranquil  soft  gl'*w, 

The  moon  shines  like  silver  above  and  below. 

So,  joyfully,  brothers,  we  float  and  we  glide. 

In  sunshine  and  moonlight,  o'er  life's  silver  tide. 

Look  up,  now !  how  sparkles  that  blue  sea  on  highT 
Arid  below  us,  in  frost,  gleams  a  star-liglited  sky; 
For  He,  who  with  suns  studded  heaven  overhead. 
Beneath  us  a  frost-flowered  meadow  hatli  spread. 
So,  joyfully,  brothers,  we  float  and  we  glide. 
Through  life's  starry  meadows,  away  far  and  wide. 


104  ON    LENDING    A    PUNCH    BOWL. 

He  hath  made  us  this  palace,  so  airy  and  wide, 
And  gave  us  steel  feet,  amid  dangers  to  glide  ; 
In  the  frosts  of  mid-winter  he  kindles  our  blood :( 
We  hover,  we  sweep,  o'er  the  treacherous  flood. 
So,  fearlessly,  brothers,  steel-hearted  we  sweep 
O'er  the  stormy  abysses  of  life's  stormy  deep. 

— MJ^ — 


I  a  fmm€k  B@wL 

O.  W.  Holm^ 


:^^^  HIS  ancient  silver  bowl  of  mine,  —  it  tells  of 

good  old  times. 
Of  joyous    days,  and  jolly   nights,    and   merry 

Christmas  times ; 
They  were  a  free   and  jovial   race,  but  honest, 

brave,  and  true, 
That  dipped  their  ladle  in  the  punch  when  the 

old  bowl  was  new. 

A  Spanish  galleon  brought  the  bar  —  so  runs  the  ancient 
tale  ; 

'Twas  hammered  by  an  Antwerp  smith,  whose  arm  was 
like  a  flail ; 

And  now  and  then,  between  the  strokes,  for  fear  his 
strength  should  fail, 

He  wiped  iils  brow,  and  c^ualfed  a  cup  of  good  old  Flem- 
ish ale. 


ON    LENDING    A    PUNCH    BOWL.  105 

'Twas  purchased  by  an  English  squire  to  please  his  loving 

dame, 
Who  saw  the  cherubs,  and  conceived  a  longing  for  the 

same  ; 
And  oft  as  on  the  ancient  stock  another  twig  was  found, 
'Twas   filled   with   caudle    spiced   and   hot,   and   handed 

smoking  round. 

But,  changing  hands,  it  reached  at  length  a  Puritan  divine. 
Who  used  to  follow  Timothy,  and  take  a  little  wine, 
But  hated  punch  and  prelacy  ;   and  so  it  was,  perhaps, 
He  went  to  Leyden,  where  he  found  conventicles  and 
schnaps. 

And  then,  of  course,  you  know  what's  next  —  it  left  the 

Dutchman's  shore, 
With  those  that  in  the  Mayflower  came  —  a  hundred  souls 

and  more  — 
Along  with  all  the  furniture,  to  fill  their  new  abodes  — 
To  judge  by  what  is  still  on  hand,  at  least  a  hundred  loads. 

'Twas  on  a  merry  winter's  eve,  the  night  was  closing  dim. 
When  old  Miles  Standish  took  the  bowl,  and  filled  it  to 

the  brim. 
The  little  captain  stood  and  stirred  the  posset  with  his 

sword. 
And  all  his  sturdy  men  at  arms  were  ranged  about  the 

board. 

He  poured  the  fiery  Hollands  in  —  the  man  that  never 

feared  — 
He  took  a  long  and  solemn  draught,  and  wiped  his  yellow 

beard  : 


106  ON  LENDING  A  PUNCH  BOWL. 

And  one  by  one  the  musketeers,  the  men  that  fought  and 

prayed, 
All  drank  as  'twere  their  mothers'  milk,  and  not  a  man 

afraid ! 

That  night,  affrighted  from  his  nest,  the  screaming  eagle 

flew; 
He  heard  the  Pequot's   ringing  whoop,  the  soldier's  wild 

halloo  ; 
And  there  the  sachem  learned  the  rule  he  taught  to  kith 

and  kin, 
"  Run  from   the  white  man  when  you  find  he  smells  of 

Hollands  gin." 

A  hundred  years,  and  fifty  more,  had  spread  their  leaves 

and  snows ; 
Athousand  rubs  had  flattened  downeach  little  cherub's  nose; 
When  once  again  the  bowl  was  fixed,  but  not  in  mirth  or 

joy; 

Twas  mingled  by  a  mother's  hand  to  cheer  her  parting  boy. 

"  Drink,  John,"  she  said;  "  'twill  do  you  good —  poor 

child,  you'll  never  bear 
This  working  in  the  dismal  trench,  out  in  the  midnight  air  ; 
And  if  —  God  bless  me  —  you  were  hurt,  't  would  keep 

away  the  chill." 
So  John  did  drink  —  and  well  he  wrought  that  night  at 

Bunker's  Hill ! 

I  tell  you,  there  was  generous  warmth  in  good  old  Eng- 
lish cheer ; 

I  tell  you,  'twas  a  pleasant  thought  to  bring  its  symbol 
here; 


SONG.  107 

'  Tis  but  the  fool  that  loves  excess  —  hast  thou  a  drunken 

soul, 
Thy  bane  is  in  thy  shallow  skull,  not  in  my  silver  bowl ! 

I  love  the  memory  of  the  past  —  its  pressed  yet  fragrant 

flowers  — 
The  moss  that  clothes  its  broken  walls  —  the  ivy  on  its 

towers  — 
Nay,  this  poor   bawble    it  bequeathed  —  my  eyes   grow 

moist  and  dim, 
To  think  of  all  the  vanished  joys  that  danced  around  its  brim. 

Then  fill  a  fair  and  honest  cup,  and  bear  it  straight  to  me ; 
The  goblet  hallows  all  it  holds,  whate'er  the  liquid  be  ; 
And  may  the  cherubs  on  its  face  protect  me  from  the  sin, 
That  dooms  me  to   those  dreadful  words  —  "  My  dear, 
where  have  you  been  ?  " 


T.  g.Jildrioh. 


'HE  chestnuts  shine  through  the  cloven  rind, 
1^^      And  the  woodland  leaves  are  red,  my  dear  ; 
The  scarlet  fuchsias  burn  in  the  wind  — 
i^^        Funeral  plumes  for  the  year. 

The  year  which  has  brought  me  so  much  woe, 
That  if  it  were  not  for  you,  my  dear, 

I  should  wish  the  fuchsia's  fire  might  glow 
For  me  as  well  as  the  year. 


108  A    CANADIAN    BOAT-SONG. 


Thos.   JV[oor9. 

•  'tail' — 

WRITTEN  ON   THE   RIVER  ST.    LAWRENCE. 

Et  remigem  cantus  hortatur.  —  Quintilian. 

AINTLY  as  tolls  the  evening  chime, 
Our  voices  keep  tune  and  our  oars  keep  time. 
Soon  as  the  woods  on  shore  look  dim, 
We'll  sing  at  St.  Ann's  our  parting  hymn. 
Row,  brothers,  row,  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  Rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight's  past ! 

Why  should  we  yet  our  sail  unfurl  ? 
There  is  not  a  breath  the  blue  wave  to  curl ! 
But  when  the  wind  blows  off  the  shore. 
Oh !  sweetly  we'll  rest  our  weary  oar. 
Blow,  breezes,  blow,  the  stream  runs  fast. 
The  Rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight's  past ! 

Utawas'  tide  !  this  trembling  moon 
Shall  see  us  float  over  thy  surges  soon. 
Saint  of  this  green  Isle  !  hear  our  prayers, 
Oh  !  grant  us  cool  heavens  and  favoring  airs. 
Blow,  breezes,  blow,  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  Rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight's  past ! 


THE    LOST    MEXICAN    CITY.  109 


Tk%  Lost  M©xl@aii  (^Itj, 

J\/£cLeUan 

"  A  large  city  once  stood  ^ere  ;  its  name  is  lost ;  its  history  unknown 
For  centuries  it  has  lain  as  completely  buried  as  if  covered  with  the  lava 
of  Vesuvius.  Every  traveller  from  Yzabal  to  Guatemala  has  passed  withiij 
three  hours  of  it ;  yet  tliere  it  lay  like  the  rock-built  city  of  Edom,  uu 
I'isited,  unsought,  and  utterly  unknown." 

Stevens's   Researches  in  Central  America. 


RUINED  city  !     In  the  heart 

Of  the  deep  wilderness  of  woods 
It  stands  immured,  where  seldom  foot 

Of  passing  traveller  intrudes. 
The  groves  primeval,  year  by  year. 

Above  the  spot  renew  their  bloom, 
Year  after  year  cast  down  their  wealth 
Of  faded  foliage  o'er  its  tomb. 

Altar  and  idol  here  arise. 

Inscribed  with  hieroglyphics  strange, 
Column  and  pyramid  sublime 

Defaced  by  centuries  of  change. 
Here,  idols  from  their  pedestals 

Displaced  by  roots  of  mightiest  girth ; 
There,  by  a  close-embracing  branch 

Half-lifted  in  the  air  from  earth. 
Or  from  their  stations  prostrate  thrown. 

Their  huge  proportions  strew  the  ground, 
With  vines  and  brambles  overthrown, 

With  interlacing  creepers  bound. 


110  THE    LOST   MEXICAX    CITY. 

No  sound  of  life  !  save  when  at  eve 

The  Indian's  machete  cleaves  the  wood, 
Or  steps  the  Indian  damsel  by, 

Singing  to  cheer  the  solitude. 
No  sound,  save  when  the  sobbing  breeze 

Sighs  through  the  forest's  dim  arcades. 
Or  shrill  call  of  the  red  macaw, 

Or  parrot's  gabble  in  the  glades, 
Or  when  the  monkey's  chattering  troop 

Glides  o'er  the  tree  top  in  their  race, 
Like  wandering  spirits  of  the  dead, 

Haunting  the  ruins  of  the  place. 

Egypt's  colossal  skeletons 

Of  temples  and  of  wondrous  shrines. 
In  the  unwatered  sands  repose. 

Where  hot  the  tropic  summer  shines; 
But  forests  lonely  and  immense 

Enshroud  these  ruins  from  the  sight. 
And  with  their  tangled  barriers  guard 

These  hidden  secrets  from  the  light. 


THE    OLD    CLOCK   ON    THE    STAIRS.  Ill 


Longfellow 


OMEWHAT  back  from  the  village  street, 

Stands  the  old-fashioned  country  seat. 

Across  its  antique  portico 

Tall  poplar  trees  their  shadows  throw ; 

And  from  its  station  in  the  hall 

An  ancient  time-piece  says  to  all, 

"  Forever  —  never  ! 

Never  —  forever  ! 

Half  way  up  the  stairs  it  stands, 
And  points  and  beckons  with  its  hands. 
From  its  case  of  massive  oak, 
Like  a  monk,  who  under  his  cloak 
Crosses  himself,  and  sighs,  alas  ! 
With  sorrowful  voice,  to  all  who  pass 

"  Forever  —  never  ! 

Never  —  forever  !  " 

By  day  its  voice  is  low  and  light, 
But  in  the  silent  dead  of  night, 
Distinct  as  a  passing  footstep's  fall 
It  echoes  along  the  vacant  hall. 
Along  the  ceiling,  along  the  floor, 
And  seems  to  say  at  each  chamber  door, 

''  Forever  —  never  ! 

Never  —  forever." 


112  THE    OLD    CLOCK    ON    THE    STAIRS. 


In  that  mansion  dsed  to  be 
Free-hearted  hospitality ; 
His  great  fires  by  the  chimney  roared, 
The  stranger  feasted  at  his  board  ; 
But  like  the  skeleton  at  the  feast. 
The  warning  time-piece  never  ceased, 

"  Forever  —  never ! 

Never  —  forever  !  " 

There  groups  of  merry  children  played, 

There  youths  and  maidens  dreaming  strayed ; 

0  precious  hours,  0  golden  prime, 

And  afiluence  of  love  and  time ; 

E'en  as  a  miser  counts  his  gold, 

Those  hours  the  ancient  time-piece  told, 

"  Forever  —  never  ! 

Never  —  forever." 

From  the  chamber,  clothed  in  white, 

The  bride  came  forth  on  her  wedding-night ; 

There  in  that  silent  room  below, 

The  dead  lay  in  his  shroud  of  snow : 

And  in  the  hush  that  followed  the  prayer, 

We  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair,  — 

"  Forever  —  never  ! 

Never  —  forever  !  " 

All  are  scattered  now  and  fled  : 
Some  are  married,  some  are  dead  ; 
And  when  T  ask,  with  throbs  of  pain, 
"Ah,  when  shall  they  all  meet  again, 


healijStg  of  the   daughteii  of  JAIRUS.       Hi 

As  in  the  days  long  since  gone  by  ?  " 
The  ancient  time-piece  nialces  reply, 

"  Forever  —  never  ! 

Never  —  forever  !  " 

Never  here,  forever  there  ! 
Where  all  parting,  pain,  and  care, 
And  death  and  time  shall  disappear. 
Forever  there,  but  never  here  ! 
The  horologe  of  eternity 
Sayeth  this  incessantly, 

"  Forever  —  never  ! 

Never  —  forever  !  " 


RESHLY  the  cool  breath  of  the  coming  eve 
Stole  through  the  lattice,  and  the  dying  girl 
Felt  it  upon  her  forehead.      She  had  lain 
Since  the  hot  noontide  in  a  breathless  trance, 
Her  thin,  pale  fingers  clasped  within  the  hand 
Of  the  heart-broken  Ruler,  and  her  breast, 
Like  the  dead  marble,  white  and  motionless. 
The  shadow  of  a  leaf  lay  on  her  lips, 
And,  as  it  stirred  with  the  awakening  wind, 
The  dark  lids  lifted  from  her  languid  eyes, 


114  HEALING   OF  THE   DAUGHTER   OF   JAIKUS. 

And  her  slight  fingers  moved,  and  heavily 

She  turned  upon  her  pillow.     He  was  there, 

The  same  loved,  tireless  watcher,  and  she  looked 

Into  his  foce  until  her  sight  grew  dim 

With  the  fast-falling  tears;  and,  with  a  sigh 

Of  tremulous  weakness  murmuring  liis  name, 

She  gently  drew  his  hand  upon  her  lips, 

And  kissed  it  as  she  wept.     The  old  man  sunk 

Upon  his  knees,  and  in  the  drapery 

Of  the  rich  curtains  buried  np  his  face; 

And  when  the  twilight  fell,  the  silken  folds 

Stirred  witii  his  prayer;  but  the  slight  hand  he  held 

Had  ceased  its  pressure,  and  he  could  not  iiear. 

In  the  dead,  utter  silence,  that  a  breath 

Came  through  her  nostrils  —  and  her  temples  gave 

To  his  nice  touch  no  pulse  —  and,  at  her  mouth, 

He  held  the  lightest  curl  that  on  her  neck 

Lay  with  a  mocking  beauty,  and  his  gaze 

Ached  with  its  deathly  stillness. 

It  was  night  — 
And,  softly  o'er  the  Sea  of  Galilee, 
Danced  the  breeze-ridden  ripples  to  the  shore, 
Tipped  with  the  silver  sparkles  of  the  moon. 
The  breaking  waves  played  low  upon  tlie  beach 
Their  constant  music,  but  the  air  beside 
Was  still  as  starlight,  and  the  Saviour's  voice, 
In  its  rich  cadences  unearthly  sweet. 
Seemed  like  some  just-born  harmon}^  in  the  air. 
Waked  by  the  power  of  wisdom.     On  a  rock, 
*.  With  the  broad  moonlight  falling  on  his  brow, 
He  stood  and  taught  the  people.     At  his  feet 


HEALING   OF   THE   DAUGHTER   OF  JAIRUS.  115 

Lay  his  small  scrip,  and  pilgrim's  scallop-shell, 

And  staff —  for  they  had  waited  by  the  sea 

Till  he  came  o'er  from  Gadarene,  and  prayed 

For  his  wont  teachings  as  he  came  to  land. 

His  hair  was  parted  meekly  on  his  brow, 

And  the  long  curls  from  off  his  shoulders  fell, 

As  he  leaned  forward  earnestly,  and  still 

The  same  calm  cadence,  passionless  and  deep  — 

And  in  his  looks  the  same  mild  majesty  — 

And  in  his  mien  the  sadness  mixed  with  power,  — 

Filled  them  with  love  and  wonder.     Suddenly, 

As  on  his  words  entrancedly  they  hung, 

The  crowd  divided,  and  among  them  stood 

Jaikus  THE  Ruler.     With  his  flowing  robe 

Gathered  in  haste  about  his  loins,  he  came. 

And  fixed  his  eyes  on  Jesus.     Closer  drew 

The  twelve  disciples  to  their  Master's  side ; 

And  silently  the  people  shrunk  away. 

And  left  the  haughty  ruler  in  the  midst 

Alone.     A  moment  longer  on  the  face 

Of  the  meek  Nazarene  he  kept  his  gaze. 

And,  as  the  twelve  looked  on  him,  by  the  light 

Of  the  clear  moon  they  saw  a  glistening  tear 

Steal  to  his  silver  beard;  and,  drawing  nigh 

Unto  the  Saviour's  feet,  he  took  the  hem 

Of  his  coarse  mantle,  and  with  trembling  hands 

Pressed  it  upon  his  lids,  and  murmured  low, 

"  Master  !  my  daughter  !  " 

The  same  silvery  lights 
That  shone  upon  the  lone  rock  by  the  sea. 
Slept  on  the  Ruler's  lofty  capitals, 


116  HEALING   OF  THE  DAUGHTER   OF   JAHJUS. 


As  at  the  door  he  stood,  and  welcomed  in 
Jesus  and  his  disciples.     All  was  still. 
The  echoing  vestibule  gave  back  the  slide 
Of  their  loose  sandals,  and  the  arrowy  beam 
Of  moonlight,  slanting  to  the  marble  floor. 
Lay  like  a  spell  of  silence  in  the  rooms, 
As  Jairus  led  them  on.     "With  hushing  steps 
He  trod  the  winding  stair ;  but  ere  he  touched 
The  latchet,  from  within  a  whisper  came, 
"  Trouble  the  Master  not  — for  she  is  dead !  " 
And  his  faint  hand  fell  nerveless  at  his  side, 
And  his  step  faltered,  and  his  broken  voice 
Choked  in  its  utterance ;  but  a  gentle  hand 
Was  laid  upon  his  arm,  and  in  his  ear 
The  Saviour's  voice  sank  thrillingly  and  low, 
♦'  She  is  not  dead  —  but  sleepeth  ! " 

They  passed  in, 
The  spice-lamps  in  the  alabaster  urns 
Burned  dimly,  and  tlie  white  and  fragrant  smoke 
Curled  indolently  on  the  chamber  walls. 
The  silken  curtains  slumbered  in  their  folds  — 
Not  even  a  tassel  stirring  in  the  air  — 
And  as  the  Saviour  stood  beside  the  bed. 
And  prayed  inaudibly,  the  Ruler  heard 
The  quickening  division  of  his  l)reath 
As  he  grew  earnest  inwardly.     Tliere  came 
A  gradual  brightness  o'er  his  calm,  sad  face; 
And,  drawing  nearer  to  the  bed,  he  moved 
The  silken  curtains  silently  apart. 
And  looked  upon  the  maiden. 

Like  a  form 


MEALING    OP    THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JAIRUS.  117 

Of  matchless  sculpture  in  her  sleep  she  lay  — 
The  linen  vesture  folded  on  her  breast, 
And  over  it  her  white  transparent  hands, 
The  blood  still  rosy  in  their  tapering  nails.      ^ 
A  line  of  pearl  ran  through  her  parted  lips. 
And  in  her  nostrils,  spiritually  thin, 
The  breathing  curve  was  mockingly  like  life ; 
And  round  beneath  the  faintly-tinted  skin 
Ran  the  light  branches  of  the  azure  veins  ; 
And  on  her  cheek  the  jet  lash  overlay. 
Matching  the  arches  pencilled  on  her  brow. 
Her  hair  had  been  unbound,  and  falling  loose 
Upon  her  pillow,  hid  her  small  round  ears, 
In  curls  of  glossy  blackness,  and  about 
Her  polished  neck,  scarce  touching  it,  they  hung, 
Like  airy  shadows  floating  as  they  slept. 
'Twas  heavenly  beautiful.     The  Saviour  raised 
Her  hand  from  off  her  bosom,  and  spread  out 
The  snowy  fingers  in  his  palm,  and  said, 
"  Maiden^  arise!"  —  and  suddenly  a  flush 
Shot  o'er  her  forehead,  and  along  her  lips 
And  through  her  cheek  the  rallied  color  ran ; 
And  the  still  outline  of  her  graceful  form 
Stirred  in  the  linen  vesture  ;  and  she  clasped 
The  Saviour's  hand,  and  fixing  her  dark  eyes 
Full  on  his  beaming  countenance  —  arose  I 


118  THE  SEASONS. 


Qrahame. 


NATURE!  all  thy  seasons  please  the  eye 
Of  him  who  sees  a  present  Deity  in  all. 
It  is  His  presence  that  diffuses  cliarms 
Unspeal\able  o'er  mountain,  wood  and  stream. 
To  think  that  He,  who  hears  the  heavenly  choirSj 
Hearkens  complacent  to  the  woodland  song ; 
To  think  that  He,  who  rolls  yon  solar  sphere, 
Uplifts  the  warbling  songster  to  the  sky; 
To  mark  his  presence  in  the  mighty  bow 
That  spans  the  clouds  as  in  the  tints  minute 
Of  tiniest  flower;  to  hear  his  awful  voice 
In  thunder  speak,  and  whisper  in  the  gale; 
To  know  and  feel  his  care  for  all  that  lives ; 
'Tis  this  that  makes  the  barren  waste  appear 
A  fruitful  field,  e.-ich  grove  a  paradise. 

Yes,  place  me  'mid  far-stretching  woodless  wilds, 
Where  no  sweet  song  is  heard ;  the  heath-bell  there 
Would  please  my  weary  sight,  and  tell  of  Thee! 
There  would  my  gratefully  uplifted  eye 
Survey  tlie  heavenly  vault,  by  day,  by  night, 
When  glows  the  firmament  from  pole  to  pole ; 
There  would  my  overflowing  lieart  exclaim, 
"The  heavens  declare  the  glory  of  the  Lord, 
The  firmament  shows  forth  his  handiwork." 


THE  SEASONS.  119 


Vr, 


Thomson. 


^^  HESE,  as  they  change,  Almighty  Father,  these 


61 


Are  but  the  varied  God.     The  rolling  year 

Is  full  of  thee.     Forth  in  the  i)leasing  sjiring 
1^^^   Thy  beauty  walks ;  thy  tenderness  and  love 

Wide  flush  the  fields ;  the  softening  air  is  balm  ; 

Echo  the  mountains  round;  the  forest  smiles; 

And  every  sense  and  every  heart  is  joy. 
Then  comes  thy  glory  in  the  summer  months, 
With  light  and  heat  refulgent.     Then  thy  sun 
Shoots  full  perfection  through  the  swelling  year; 
And  oft  thy  voice  in  dreadful  thunder  speaks, 
And  oft  at  dawn,  deep  noon,  or  falling  eve. 
By  brooks  and  groves,  in  hollow-whispering  gales. 
Thy  bounty  shines  in  autumn  unconfined. 
And  spreads  a  common  feast  for  all  that  lives. 
In  winter,  awful  thou!  with  clouds  and  storms 
Around  thee  thrown,  tempest  o'er  tempest  rolled. 
Majestic  darkness,  on  the  whirlwind's  wing. 
Riding  sublime,  thou  bidd'st  the  world  adore. 
And  humblest  nature  with  thy  northern  blast. 


r20  WEDDING    GIFTS. 


f  « 


Tupper. 


►**+< 


OUNG  bride,  —  a  wreath  for  thee. 

Of  sweet  and  gentle  flowers  ; 
For  wedded  love  was  pure  and  free 

In  Eden's  happy  bowers. 

Young  bride,  —  a  song  for  thee, 
A  song  of  joyous  measure, 

For  thy  cup  of  hope  shall  be 
Filled  with  honeyed  pleasure. 

Young  bride,  —  a  tear  for  thee, 
A  tear  in  all  thy  gladness  ; 

For  thy  young  heart  shall  not  see 
Joy  unmixed  with  sadness. 

Young  bride,  —  a  smile  for  thee, 
To  shine  away  thy  sorrow. 

For  Heaven  is  kind  to-day,  and  we 
Will  hope  as  well  to-morrow. 

Young  bride,  —  a  prayer  for  thee, 
That  all  thy  hopes  possessing, 

Thy  soul  may  praise  her  God,  and  he 
May  crown  thee  with  his  blessing. 


BRING   FLOWERS.  121 


RING-  flowers,  young  flowers,  for  the  festal  board 
To  wreathe  the  cup  ere  the  wine  is  poured ; 
Bring  flowers  !  they  are  springing  in  wood  and 

vale, 
Their  breath  floats  out  on  the  southern  gale  ; 
And  the  torch  of  the  sunbeam  hath  waked  the  rose, 
To  deck  the  hall  where  the  bright  wine  flows. 

Bring  flowers  to  strew  in  the  conqueror's  path ; 
He  hath  shaken  thrones  with  his  stormy  wrath ; 
He  comes  with  the  spoils  of  nations  back. 
The  vines  lie  crushed  in  his  chariot's  track, 
The  turf  looks  red  where  he  won  the  day  — 
Bring  flowers  to  die  in  the  conqueror's  way. 

Bring  flowers  to  the  captive's  lonely  cell ; 
They  have  tales  of  the  joyous  woods  to  tell. 
Of  the  free  blue  streams  and  the  glowing  sky, 
And  the  bright  world  shut  from  his  languid  eye  ; 
They  will  bear  him  a  thought  of  the  sunny  hours, 
And  the  dream  of  his  youth  ;  bring  him  flowers,  wild 
flowers. 

Bring  flowers,  fresh  flowers,  for  the  bride  to  wear  ; 
They  were  born  to  blush  in  her  shining  hair. 
She  is  leaving  the  home  of  her  childhood's  mirth, 
She  hath  bid  farewell  to  her  father's  hearth, 


122  SOLITUDE. 


Her  place  is  now  by  another's  side  — 

Bring  flowers  for  the  locks  of  the  fair  young  bride. 

Bring  flowers,  pale  flowers,  o'er  the  bier  to  shed, 

A  crown  for  the  brow  of  the  early  dead  ! 

For  this  through  its  leaves  hath  the  white  rose  burst, 

For  this  in  the  woods  was  the  violet  nursed  ; 

Though  they  smile  in  vain  for  what  once  was  ours, 

They  are  love's  last  gift ;  bring  ye  flowers,  pale  flowers. 

Bring  flowers  to  the  shrine  where  we  kneel  in  prayer ; 

They  are  nature's  ofi"ering,  their  place  is  there ; 

They  speak  of  hope  to  the  fainting  heart, 

With  a  voice  of  promise  they  come  and  part ; 

They  sleep  in  dust  through  the  wintry  hours, 

They  break  forth  in  glory  ;  bring  flowers,  bright  flowers 


Syron. 


'  HERE  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society  where  none  intrudes 
i^,      By  the  deep  sea,  and  music  in  its  roar. 

I  love  not  man  the  less,  but  nature  more, 
From  these  our  interviews  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 


FOR    a'    that    and    a'    THAT.  123 


^ums, 


-  QJCii>£i-r^— 


S  there,  for  honest  poverty, 

That  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that ; 
The  coward-slave,  we  pass  him  by, 

We  dare  be  poor,  for  a'  that ; 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Our  toil's  obscure,  and  a'  that, 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp, 

The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that. 

What  though  on  hamely  fare  we  dine. 

Wear  hoddin  gray,  and  a'  that  ? 
Gi'e  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 

A  man  's  a  man  for  a'  that ; 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a'  that ; 
The  honest  man,  though  e'er  sae  poor, 

Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,  ca'd  a  lord. 

Who  struts,  and  stares,  and  a'  that ; 
Though  hundreds  worship  at  his  feet. 

He's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that ; 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

His  ribbon,  star,  and  a'  that, 
The  man  of  independent  mind, 

He  looks  and  lauglis  at  a'  that. 


124  KNOWLEDGE    AND    WISDOM. 

A  prince  can  make  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that ; 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might 

Gruid  faith  he  mauna  fa'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

Their  dignities,  and  a'  that, 
The  pith  o'  sense  and  pride  o'  worth 

Are  higher  ranks  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may, 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that, 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth, 

May  bear  the  gree,  and  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

It 's  coming  yet,  for  a'  that. 
That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er, 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that. 


Ki@wk(i|8  aid  Wisdom, 


Cowper. 


f^  NOWLEDGE  and  wisdom,  far  from  being  one,. 
Have    ofttimes    no     connection.       Knowledge 

dwells 
In  heads  replete  with  thoughts  of  other  men ; 
Wisdom  in  minds  attentive  to  their  own. 
Knowledge  —  a  rude,  unprofitable  mass, 
The  mere  materials  with  which  Wisdom  builds, 
Till  smoothed,  and  scjuared.  and  fitted  to  its  place  — 


NOVEMBER.  125 


Does  but  eacumber  whom  it  seems  to  enrich. 
Knowledge  is  proud  that  he  has  learned  so  much ; 
Wisdom  is  humble  that  he  knows  no  more. 


<^=5^ • 


ET  one  smile  more,  departing,  distant  sun, 

One  mellow  smile  through  the  soft,  vaporing  air, 
Ere  o'er  the  frozen  earth  the  loud  winds  run, 


Or  snows  are  sifted  o'er  the  meadows  bare  ; 
One  smile  on  the  brown  hills  and  naked  trees ; 
And  the   dark   rocks  whose   summer  wreaths 
are  cast. 

And  the  blue  gentian  flower,  that  in  the  breeze 
Nods  lonely,  of  her  beauteous  race  the  last. 
Yet  a  few  sunny  days,  in  which  the  bee 

Shall  murmur  by  the  hedge  that  skirts  the  way, 
The  cricket  chirp  upon  the  russet  lea. 

And  man  delight  to  linger  in  the  ray. 
Yet  one  rich  smile,  and  we  will  try  to  bear 
The  piercing  winter  frost,  and  winds,  and  darkened  air. 


1*26  THE    PKIMIiOSE    OP    THE    ItOCK. 


'Wordsworth. 

ROCK  there  is  whose  homely  front 

The  passing  traveller  slights  ; 
Yet  there  the  glow-worms  hang  their  lamps, 

Like  stars,  at  various  heights, 
And  one  coy  primrose  to  that  rock 

The  vernal  breeze  invites. 


What  hideous  warfare  hath  been  waged, 
What  kingdoms  overthrown. 

Since  first  I  spied  that  primrose  tuft, 
And  marked  it  for  my  own ! 

A  lasting  link  in  nature's  chain. 
From  highest  heaven  let  down. 

The  flowers,  still  faithful  to  the  stems, 

Their  fellowship  renew ; 
The  stems  are  faithful  to  the  root, 

That  worketh  out  of  view ; 
And  to  the  rock  the  root  adheres, 

In  every  fibre  true. 

Close  clings  to  earth  the  living  rock. 
Though  threatening  still  to  fall ; 

The  earth  is  constant  to  her  sphere. 
And  God  upholds  them  all ; 


THE    PRIINIROSE    OF    THE    ROCK.  127 


So  blooms  this  lonely  plant,  nor  dreads 
Her  annual  funeral. 

Here  closed  the  meditative  strain  ; 

But  air  breathed  soft  that  day, 
The  hoary  mountain  heights  were  cheered. 

The  sunny  vale  looked  gay  ; 
And  to  the  primrose  of  the  rock 

I  gave  this  after-lay. 

I  sang.  Let  myriads  of  bright  flowers, 

Like  thee,  in  field  and  grove 
Retrieve  unenvied,  mightier  far 

Than  tremblings  that  reprove 
Our  vernal  tendencies  to  hope 

In  God's  redeeming  love  — 

That  love  which  changed,  for  wan  disease. 

For  sorrow,  that  hath  bent 
O'er  hopeless  dust,  for  withered  age, 

Their  moral  element, 
And  turned  the  thistles  of  a  curse 

To  types  beneficent. 

Sin-blighted  though  we  are,  we  too. 

The  reasoning  sons  of  men, 
From  one  oblivious  winter  called, 

Shall  rise,  and  breathe  again; 
And  in  eternal  summer  lose 

Our  threescore  years  and  ten. 

To  humbleness  of  heart  descends 
This  prescience  from  on  high, 


128  OVER    THE    RIVER. 


The  faith  thao  elevates  the  just 

Before  and  when  they  die, 
And  makes  each  soul  a  separate  heaven, 

A  court  for  Deity. 


E3      ATt^V/^ 


JTancyJl.  W.  (Priest. 

VER  the  river  they  beckon  to  me, 

Loved  ones  who've  crossed  to  the  farther  side  ; 
The  gleam  of  their  snowy  robes  I  see, 

But  their  voices  are  drowned  by  the  rushing 
tide. 
There's  one  with  ringlets  of  sunny  gold, 

And  eyes  the  reflection  of  heaven's  own  blue  ; 
He  crossed  in  the  twilight  gray  and  cold, 

And  the  pale  mist  hid  him  from  mortal  view ; 
We  saw  not  the  angels  that  met  him  there, 
The  gates  of  the  city  vte  could  not  see  ; 
Over  the  river,  over  the  river, 

My  brother  stands  waiting  to  welcome  me. 

Over  the  river  the  boatman  pale 

Carried  another,  the  household  pet ; 
Her  brown  curls  waved  in  the  gentle  gale  — 

Darling  Minnie,  I  see  her  yet. 
She  crossed  on  her  bosom  her  dimpled  hands 

And  fearlessly  entered  the  phantom  bark: 


OVER    THE    RIVER,  129 

We  watched  it  glide  from  the  silver  sands, 
And  all  our  suu shine  grew  strangely  dark. 

We  know  she  is  safe  on  the  farther  side. 
Where  all  the  ransomed  and  angels  be; 

Over  the  river,  the  mystic  river. 

My  childhood's  angel  is  waiting  for  me. 

For  none  return  from  those  spirit  shores 

Who  cross  with  the  boatman  cold  and  pale ; 
We  hear  the  dip  of  the  golden  oars. 

And  catch  a  gleam  of  the  snowy  sail ; 
And  lo  !  they  have  passed  from  our  yearning  hearts, 

They  cross  the  stream  and  are  gone  for  aye ; 
We  may  not  sunder  the  veil  apart 

That  hides  from  our  visions  the  gates  of  day. 
We  only  know  that  their  barks  no  more 

May  sail  with  us  o'er  life's  stormy  sea; 
Yet  somewhere,  I  know,  on  the  unseen  shore 

They  watch  and  beckon  and  wait  for  me. 

And  I  sit  and  think  when  the  sunset's  gold 

Is  flushing  river  and  hill  and  shore, 
I  shall  one  day  stand.by  the  water  cold. 

And  list  for  the  sound  of  the  boatman's  oar ; 
And  when  perchance  the  well-known  hail 

Again  shall  echo  along  the  strand, 
I  shall  pass  from  sight  with  the  boatman  pale, 

To  the  better  shore  of  the  spirit  land. 
I  shall  know  the  loved  who  have  gone  before. 

And  joyfully  sweet  will  the  meeting  be, 
When  over  the  river,  the  peaceful  river, 

The  angel  of  death  shal]  carry  me. 


130 


FALL   OF   THE   INDIAN. 


^^  ET  sometimes,  in  the  gay  and  noisy  street 
Of  the  great  city,  which  usurps  tlie  place 
Of  the  small  Indian  village,  one  shall  see 
Some  miserable  relic  of  that  race 
Whose  sorely-tarnished  fortunes  we  have  snng; 
Yet  how  debased  and  fallen!     In  his  ej'e 
The  flame  of  noble  daring  has  gone  out, 
And  his  brave  face  has  lost  its  martial  look ; 
His  eye  rests  on  the  earth,  as  if  tiie  grave 
Were  his  sole  hope,  his  last  and  only  home. 
A  poor,  thin  garb  is  wrapped  about  his  frame. 
Whose  sorry  i)liglit  but  mocks  liis  ancient  state; 
And  in  the  bleak  and  pitiless  storm  ho  walks 
With  melancholy  brow,  and  sliivers  as  lie  goes. 
His  pride  is  dead;  iiis  courage  is  no  more; 
His  name  is  but  a  by-word.     All  tlie  tribes 
Who  called  this  mighty  continent  tlieir  own 
Are  homeless,  friendless  wanderers  on  earth. 


WHEN   I   AM    DEAD. 


131 


%%m  I  Am  Beai, 


Emma  Jllice  ^rowne. 

HEN  my  last  sunset  is  under  a  cloiul 
Lot  not  your  sorrow  be  bitter  nor  loud, 
^  But  strew  some  pale  violets  over  my  shroud 
When  I  am  dead. 

For  while  the  worn  watchers  are  out  of  tlie  i-ooni 
And  children  are  searching  the  gardens  for  bloom 
You  will  come  in  and  kiss  me,  to  lessen  the  gloom. 
When  1  nm  dead. 

Smooth  the  dark  tresses  from  my  white  cheek. 
Press  down  my  eyelids  so  mournfully  meek, 
And  tread  very  softly,  but  fear  not  to  speak 
Because  I  am  dead. 

Kneel  by  me,  Allan,  and  murmur  a  pi-ayer, 
Clasping  my  two  hands,  so  slender  and  fair, 
And  thi-ough  the  bleak  silence  thy  voice  T  shall  hear—- 
If  I  be  dead. 

Weep  not  for  me,  though  so  early  away 
From  all  the  wild  joyance  of  life's  sunny  May: 
Think  of  me  often,  but,  sweet,  never  say, 
Alas!  she  is  dead. 

Though  a  pale  fjice  at  twilight,  O  Allan,  no  more 
Shall  part  the  June  splendors  away  from  the  door, 
To  watch  for  your  shadow  across  the  wild  moor, 
When  I  am  dead. 


132 


OUK  COLORS  AT  FOKT  SUMTER. 


When  the  red  summers  in  loveliness  break. 
Come  to  the  grave  that  the  strangers  shall  make, 
And  smile  that  so  sweetly  my  slumber  I  take  — 
Peaceful  and  dead. 

The  picture  I  gave  you  last  harvest  time,  keep  ; 

Look  at  it,  Allan,  but  never  to  weep, 

For  her  sake,  who  so  calmly  has  fallen  asleep 

In  the  house  of  the  dead. 


Now  kiss  me,  my  Allan,  and  leave  me  alone, 
Nigher  the  waves  of  the  soiTowful  moan, 
And  I  see  the  white  splendors  that  fall  from  the  throne 
Where  none  ever  are  dead. 


— ^>C@'^3£^<©^IH — 


/> 


S, 


kr%  at  Fqi 


JUdrioh 


ERE'S  to  the  Hero  of  Moultrie, 

The  valiant  and  the  true ; 
True  to  our  flag,  by  land  and  sea  — 
Tj  /        Long  may  it  wave  for  you. 

May  never  traitor's  touch  pollute 
Those  colors  of  the  sky ; 

We  want  them  pure,  to  wi-ap  about 
Our  heroes  when  they  die! 


TWO    HUNDRED    YEARS.  133 


(Pierpont. 

WO  hundred  years  !  —  two  hundred  years  J 
■  How  much  of  human  power  and  pride, 
What  glorious  hopes,  what  gloomy  fears, 
Have  sunk  beneath  their  noiseless  tide  I 

The  red  man,  at  his  horrid  rite, 

Seen  by  the  stars  at  night's  cold  noon, 
His  bark  canoe' its  track  of  light 

Left  on  the  wave  beneath  the  moon,  -— 


His  dance,  his  yell,  his  council  fire, 
The  altar  where  his  victim  lay, 

His  death-song,  and  his  funeral  pyre, 
That  still,  strong  tide  hath  borne  away. 

And  that  pale  pilgrim  band  is  gone, 
That  on  this  shore  with  trembling  trodj 

Ready  to  faint,  yet  bearing  on 
The  ark  of  freedom  and  of  Grod. 

And  war  —  that  since  o'er  ocean  came, 
And  thundered  loud  from  yonder  hill. 

And  wrapped  its  foot  in  sheets  of  flame 
To  blast  that  ark  —  its  storm  is  still. 

Chief,  sachem,  sage,  bards,  heroes,  seers, 
That  live  in  story  and  in  song. 

Time,  for  the  last  two  hundred  years. 
Has  raised,  aud  shown,  and  swept  alon|» 


134 


ONE    HEART    S    ENOUGH    FOR    ME- 


'Tis  like  a  dream  when  one  awakes  — 
This  vision  of  the  scenes  of  old  ; 

'Tis  like  the  moon,  when  morning  breaks, 
'Tis  like  a  tale  round  watch-fires  told. 

God  of  our  fathers,  —  in  whose  sight 
The  thousand  years  that  swept  away 

Man,  and  the  traces  of  his  might, 

Are  but  the  break  and  close  of  day,  — 

Grant  us  that  love  of  truth  sublime, 
That  love  of  goodness  and  of  thee, 

Which  makes  thy  children,  in  all  time, 
To  share  thine  own  eternity. 


— HJ^^>^ — 


fiuguste  J^ignan 


~yt-~^JClf*&<T~~- 


NE  heart's  enough  for  me  — 

One  heart  to  love,  adore  — 
One  heart's  enough  for  me  ; 

0,  who  could  wish  for  more  ? 
The  birds  that  soar  above, 

And  sing  their  songs  on  high, 
Ask  but  for  one  to  love, 

And  therefore  should  not  I  ? 


ADDRESS    TO    THE    COMET.  135 


One  pair  of  eyes  to  gaze 

One  pair  of  sparkling  blue, 
In  which  sweet  love  betrays 

Her  form  of  fairest  hue  ; 
One  pair  of  glowing  cheeks. 

Fresh  as  the  rose  and  fair. 
Whose  crimson  blush  bespeaks 

The  health  that's  native  there. 

One  pair  of  hands  to  tvrine 

Love's  flowers  fair  and  gay, 
And  form  a  wreath  divine. 

Which  never  can  decay  ; 
And  this  is  all  I  ask. 

One  gentle  form  and  fair  -~- 
Beneath  whose  smiles  to  bask, 

And  learn  love's  sweetness  there. 


• -C^rs-^bfe^^^i^— - 


RT  thou  the  same  mysterious  traveller, 
That  in  our  last  bright  circuit  of  the  sun 
Paid  visit  to  our  gaze. 
And  woke  up  mixed  surprise  — 
Pilling  the  many  with  an  awful  dread, 
The  few  with  deep  delight  ? 


186  ADDRESS    TO    THE    COMET. 


Art  thou  the  same  returned  with  re-enforce 
Of  heavenly  ammunition  —  light  and  heat, 

Which  in  thy  last  campaign 

'Gainst  other  worlds  was  spent. 
Ere  thou  hadst  meditated  war  on  us  ? 

Hast  thou  been  back  to  where 

The  storehouse  of  the  thunderbolt  is  kept. 

And  steeped  thy  long  hair  in  the  lightning  stream 

That  round  it  ever  flows, 

Keeping  it  prisoner  there 
Till  the  destroying  angel  lifts  the  sluice 

To  pour  both  on  some  world  ? 

Or  art  thou  on  a  kindly  mission  sent  ?  — 
Or  on  thy  own  research  a  wandering  orb, 

Curious  to  see  in  which 

Of  all  the  breathing  stars 
The  happiest  Eden  was  by  folly  lost  ? 

If  so,  come  not  to  us  ! 

Thou  'It  find  no  remnants  of  that  blissful  place 
Where  we  imagine  our  first  kindred  dwelt  — 

Dreary  and  desolate 

Is  all  around  it  now  !  — 
Turn  —  turn  away,  and  give  us  not  to  fear 

Of  thy  consuming  touch  ! 


'-^t^z^m'^^'''^^ 


TO    A    POET    WHO    DIED    OF    WANT.  137 


FROM  THE   GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 

L.  Filmore 

LIFE  of  struggle,  grief,  and  pain, 
Fate  had  appointed  thee  ; 
And  death  in  want  hath  snapped  the  chain 
Linked  life  to  misery. 

The  Muses  came  —  a  glorious  throng  — 

Around  thy  infant  bed  ; 
They  touched  thy  lips  with  golden  song. 

But  ah  !  denied  them  bread. 


Thy  mother  from  thee  early  died. 

And  thou  didst  iind  it  vain 
To  hope  from  any  heart  beside 

For  love  like  hers  again. 

Round  thee  the  world  its  treasures  spread 

In  overflow  of  blessing, 
But  ever  from  thy  grasp  they  fled 

For  other  men's  possessing. 

Spring  with  its  blossoms  made  thee  blest  — 
Its  bowers  were  dreams  to  thee ; 

But  autumn's  grape  another  pressed  — 
Another  stripped  its  tree. 


138 


WOMAN  S   LOVE. 


And  often  thou  thy  thirst  hast  slaked. 

Thy  cup  with  water  filled, 
While  echoes,  by  thy  songs  awaked. 

Through  halls  of  feasting  thrilled. 

Amid  the  busy  world  you  walked 
As  though  it  were  not  thine, 

And  to  unlisteuing  ears  you  talked 
A  language  too  divine. 

When  borne  unto  thy  mortal  rest, 
How  frail  thy  corse  will  be  ! 

Lightly  thy  foot  the  earth  has  pressed. 
Light  lie  its  dust  on  thee  ! 


jSnon. 


AN  knows  not  love  —  such  love  as  woman  feels. 
In  him  it  is  a  vast  devouring  flame  — 
llesistless  fed  —  in  its  own  strength  consumed. 
In  woman's  heart  it  enters  step  by  step, 
Concealed,  disowned,  until  its  gentler  ray 
Breathes  forth  a  light,  illumining  her  world, 
Man  loves  not  for  repose  ;  he  wooes  the  flowei 
To  wear  it  as  the  victoi-'s  trophied  crown ; 
Whilst  woman,  when  she  glories  in  her  love, 
More  like  the  dove,  in  noiseless  constancy. 
Watches  the  nest  of  her  affection  till 
'Tis  shed  upon  the  tomb  of  him  she  loves. 


THE    BRIDGE    OF    SIGHS.  139 


Hood. 


NE  more  unfortunate, 
Weary  of  breath, 

Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly. 
Lift  her  with  care  ; 

Fashioned  so  slenderly. 
Young  and  so  fair  ! 


Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements ; 

Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing  ; 

Take  her  up  instantly, 
Loving,  not  loathing,  — 

Touch  her  not  scornfully  ! 
Think  of  her  mournfully. 

Gently  and  humanly. 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her  ; 
All  that  remains  of  her 

Now,  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny, 
Into  her  mutiny, 

Rash  and  undutiful ; 


HO  THE    IJKIUUE    OF    SIGIIS. 


Past  all  dishonor, 

Death  has  left  on  her 
Only  the  beautiful. 

Still  for  all  slips  of  hers, 

One  of  Eve's  family  — 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers 

Oozing  so  clammily. 
Loop  up  her  tresses 

Escaped  from  the  comb, 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses  ; 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses, 

Where  was  her  home  ? 

Who  was  her  father  ? 

Who  was  her  mother  ? 
Had  she  a  sister  ? 

Had  she  a  brother  ? 
Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 

Yet  than  all  other  ? 

Alas  !  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 

Under  the  sun  ! 
O  !  it  was  pitiful. 
Near  a  whole  city  full. 

Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly 

Feelings  had  changed ; 


TIIK    BRIDGE    OF    SIGHS.  l-i1 

Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence, 
Even  God's  providence 
Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river, 

With  many  a  light 
From  window  and  casement, 
From  garret  and  basement, 
She  stood,  with  amazement, 

Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 

Made  her  tremble  and  shiver; 
But  not  the  dark  arch. 

Or  the  black  flowing  river; 
Mad  from  life's  history. 
Glad  to  death's  mystery 

Swift  to  be  hurled  — 
Anywhere,  anywhere 

Out  of  the  world ! 

In  she  plunged  boldly, 
No  matter  how  coldly 

The  rough  river  ran. 
Over  the  brink  of  it  ; 
Picture  it  —  think  of  it, 

Dissolute  man  ! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 

Then,  if  you  can. 


t42  THE    BRIDGE    OF    SIGHS, 

Take  her  up  tenderly. 
Lift  her  with  care  ; 

Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair ! 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
StiiFen  too  rigidly, 

Decently,  kindly. 
Smooth  and  compose  them  ; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 

Staring  so  blindly ! 

Dreadfully  staring, 

Through  muddy  impurity. 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing, 
Fixed  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily. 

Spurned  by  contumely, 
Burning  insanity, 
Cold  inhumanity. 

Into  her  rest, 

Cross  her  hands  humbly 
As  if  praying  dumbly, 

Over  her  breast. 

Owning  her  weakness, 
Her  evil  behavior, 

And  leaving,  with  meekness. 
Her  sins  to  her  Saviour. 


THE  POET  DREAMT  OP  HEAVEN.        1-43 


jflnoru 


HE  poet  dreamt  of  Heaven  ! 

He  strayed,  a  little  child  amidst  the  glen 
Where  in  his  boyhood  he'd  been  wont  to  sv-ray  ; 

He  heard  the  very  sounds  he  loved  so  then, 
And  knew  the  very  forms.     'Twas  in  this  way 
The  poet  dreamt  of  Heaven. 


The  mother  dreamt  of  Heaven  ! 

She  saw  her  children  decked  in  gems  and  flowers  ; 
And  one,  whose  health  had  always  been  amiss, 

Was  blooming  now  in  those  celestial  bowers 
He  laughed  to  roam  among.     And  dreaming  this. 
The  mother  dreamt  of  Heaven! 

Her  children  dreamt  of  Heaven  ! 

0,  'twas  a  glorious  land,  where  daisies  grew, 
And  hidden  music  round  it  sounded  low  ; 

And  playtime  lasted  there  the  whole  year  through 
And  angels  came  and  joined  with  them.     'Twas  so 
Her  children  dreamt  of  Heaven  ! 

The  traveller  dreamt  of  Heaven  ! 

The  sun  once  more  with  trebled  splendor  rose, 
A.nd  o'er  the  scene  its  shadows  cast 

Where  all  was  taintless  joy  and  calm  repose, 
And  quiet  thinking  of  the  dangerous  past. 
He  said  its  name  was  Heaven  ! 


144  ON    THE    SKA. 


The  mourner  dreamt  of  Heaven  ! 

Before  his  eyes,  so  long  with  sorrow  dim, 
A  glorious  sheen,  like  lengthened  lightning,  blazed; 

And  from  the  clouds  one  face  looked  down  on  him, 
Whose  beauty  thrilled  his  veins.     And  as  he  gazed 
He  knew  he  gazed  on  Heaven! 

And  all  dream  on  ! 

Heaven's  for  the  pure,  the  just,  the  undefiled ; 
And  so  our  lives,  by  holy  faith,  are  such  ; 

Our  dreams  may  be  erroneous,  varying,  wild  ; 
But  0,  we  cannot  think  and  hope  too  much. 
So  let  them  all  dream  on  ! 


^ayard  Baylor. 

-— *i-36+- — 

HE  pathway  of  the  sinking  moon 

Fades  from  the  silent  bay  ; 
The  mountain  isles  loom  large  and  fains, 

Folded  in  shadows  gray. 
And  the  lights  of  land  are  setting  stars 

That  soon  will  pass  away. 


0  boatman,  cease  thy  mellow  song, 

0  minstrel,  drop  thy  lyre  ; 
Let  us  hear  the  voice  of  the  midnight  sea, 

Let  us  speak  as  the  waves  inspire. 


THE  SOUL.  145 


While  the  plasliy  clip  of  the  languid  oar 
Is  a  furrow  of  silver  fire. 

Day  cannot  make  thee  half  so  fair, 

Nor  the  stars  of  eve  so  dear; 
The  arms  that  clasp,  and  the  breast  that  keeps, 

They  tell  me  thou  art  near, 
And  the  perfect  beauty  of  thy  face 

In  thy  murmured  words  I  hear. 

The  lights  of  land  have  dropped  below 

The  vast  and  glimmering  sea; 
The  world  we  have  is  a  tale  that  is  told,  — 

A  fiible  that  cannot  be. 
There  is  no  life  in  the  sphery  dark 

But  the  love  in  thee  and  me. 


— ^«-5«e*#t^2^s^ 


Jiddison 


HE  Soul,  secure  in  her  existence,  smiles 
^144^  At  the  drawn  dagger,  and  defies  its  point; 
The  stars  shall  fade  away,  the  sun  himself 
ijVjGrow  dim  with  age,  and  nature  sink  in  years; 
But  tiiou  shalt  flourish  in  immortal  youth. 
Unhurt  amid  the  war  of  elements. 
The  wreck  of  matter,  and  the  crush  of  worlds. 


146  THE  PRAYER  OF  NATURE. 


1 


Syron 


ATHER  of  Light!  great  God  of  Heaven, 
Hear'st  thou  the  accents  of  despair? 

Can  guilt  like  man's  be  e'er  forgiven? 
Can  vice  atone  for  crimes  by  prayer? 

Father  of  Light,  on  thee  I  call; 

Thou  seest  my  soul  is  dark  within ; 
Thou,  who  canst  mark  the  sparrow's  fall, 

Avert  from  me  the  death  of  sin. 

No  shrine  I  seek  to  sects  unknown ; 

O,  point  to  me  the  path  of  truth ; 
Thy  dread  omnipotence  I  own; 

Spare,  yet  amend  the  faults  of  youth. 

Let  bigots  rear  a  gloomy  fane. 

Let  superstition  hail  the  pile. 
Let  priests,  to  spread  their  sable  reign, 

With  tales  of  mystic  rites  beguile. 

Shall  man  confine  his  INLaker's  sway 
To  Gothic  domes  of  mouldering  stone? 

Thy  temple  is  the  face  of  day; 

Eart ,  ocean,  heaven  thy  boundless  throne. 

Sh.all  man  condemn  his  race  to  hell 
Unless  they  bend  in  pompous  form ; 


THE  PRAYER  OF  NATURE.  147 

Tell  us  that  all,  for  one  who  fell, 
Must  perish  in  the  mingling  storm? 

Shall  each  pretend  to  reach  the  skies, 

Yet  doom-  his  brother  to  expire. 
Whose  soul  a  different  hope  supplies. 

Or  doctrines  less  severe  inspire? 

Shall  these,  by  creeds  they  can't  expound. 

Prepare  a  fancied  bliss  or  woe? 
Shall  reptiles,  grovelling  on  the  ground. 

Their  great  Creator's  purpose  know? 

Shall  those  who  live  for  self  alone. 

Whose  years  float  on  in  daily  crime,  — 

Shall  they  by  faith  for  guilt  atone. 
And  live  beyond  the  bounds  of  time? 

Father!  no  prophet's  laws  I  seek; 

Thy  laws  in  Nature's  works  appear ;  — 
I  own  myself  cori-upt  and  weak ; 

Yet  will  I  pray,  for  thou  wilt  hear! 

Thou,  who  canst  guide  the  wandering  star 
Through  trackless  realms  of  ether's  space; 

Who  calm'st  the  elemental  war. 

Whose  hand  from  pole  to  pole  I  trace ;  — 

Thou,  who  in  wisdom  placed  me  here, 

Who,  when  thou  wilt,  can  take  me  hence,  — 

Ah!  while  I  tread  this  earthly  sphere, 
Extend  to  me  thy  wide  defence. 


148 


IN   REVERIE. 


To  thee,  my  God,  to  thee  I  call ! 

Whatever  weal  or  woe  betide, 
By  thy  command  I  rise  or  fall; 

In  thy  protection  I  confide. 

If,  when  this  dust  to  dust  restored, 
My  soul  shall  float  on  airy  wing. 

How  shall  thy  glorious  name  adored 
Inspire  her  feeble  voice  to  sing! 

But,  if  this  fleeting  spirit  share 
With  clay  the  grave's  eternal  bed, 

While  life  yet  throbs  I  raise  my  prayer. 
Though  doomed  no  more  to  quit  the  dead. 

To  thee  I  breathe  my  humble  strain, 
Grateful  for  all  thy  mercies  past, 

And  hope,  my  God,  to  thee  again 
This  erring  life  may  fly  at  last. 

— M>:»3a>»g4M — 


Harriet  J\/[cE\uen  Kirnhall 


jN  the  west,  the  weary  Day 

Folds  its  amber  wings  and  dies; 
'^y>^>E  Night,  the  lono-  delaying  Nio-ht, 
Vfalks  abroad  in  starry  guise. 

Rest  more  precious  than  a  sleep, 
Silence  sweeter  tiian  a  dream,  — 


THE  TEMFEST.  149 


These  enfold  me  as  I  float, 
Idle  waif  on  idle  stream. 

In  the  rippling  trees  I  hear 

Flowing  waves  and  dipping  oars ; 

And  beloved  voices  near, 

Seem  to  steal  from  fading  shores. 

Fainter,  fainter,  fliinter  still, 

By  no  breath  of  passion. crossed, 

With  the  tide  I  drift  and  glide 
Out  to  sea  —  and  all  is  lost. 

— NG^ — 


James  'f.   Fields. 


^  E  were  crowded  in  the  cabin ; 
J)     Not  a  sonl  would  dare  to  speak ; 
Js  was  midnight  on  the  waters, 
And  a  storm  was  on  the  deep. 


Tis  a  fearful  thing  in  winter 
To  be  shattered  in  the  blast. 

And  to  hear  the  rattling  trumpet 
Thunder,  "Cut  away  the  mast!" 

So  we  shuddered  there  in  silence. 
For  the  stoutest  held  his  breath 


150  THE    PRINCESS. 


While  the  angry  sea  was  roaring, 
And  the  breakers  talked  with  Death. 

And  thus  we  sat  in  darkness, 
Each  one  busy  in  his  prayers  : 

"  We  are  lost !  "  the  captain  shouted, 
As  he  staggered  down  the  stairs. 

But  his  little  daughter  whispered, 

As  she  took  his  icy  hand, 
"Is  not  Grod  upon  the  ocean 

Just  the  same  as  on  the  land  ?" 

Then  we  kissed  the  little  maiden, 
And  we  spoke  in  better  cheer. 

And  we  anchored  safe  in  harbor, 
When  the  morn  was  shining  clear. 


Tennyson 

EARS,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean. 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
liise  in  the  heart  and  gather  to  the  eyes. 
In  looking  on  the  happy  autumn  fields. 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 


Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail, 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  under  world 


JOE.  151 

Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge! 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 

The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awakened  birds 

To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 

The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square; 

So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Dear  as  remembered  kisses  after  death. 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fiincy  feigned 
On  lips  that  are  for  others ;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret; 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 


jSlbeH  Laighton. 


LL  day  long,  with  a  vacant  stare. 
Along  in  the  chilling  autumn  air. 
With  naked  feet  he  wanders  slow 
Over  the  city  — the  idiot  Joe! 

I  often  marvel  why  he  was  born, 
A  child  of  humanity  thus  forlorn, 
Unloved,  unnoticed  by  all  below; 
A  cheerless  thing  is  the  life  of  Joe! 


152  JOE. 

Beauty  can  throw  no  spell  o'er  hiin; 
His  inner  vision  is  weak  and  dim, 
And  Nature  in  all  her  varied  show 
Wearetli  no  charm  for  the  eyes  of  Joe. 

Earth  may  wake  at  the  kiss  of  sjiring, 
Flowers  may  blossom  and  birds  may  sing; 
With  joy  the  crystal  streams  may  flow ; 
They  never  make  glad  the  heart  of  Joe. 

His  vague  and  wandering  thoughts  enfold 
No  dreams  of  glory,  no  schemes  for  gold; 
He  knows  not  the  blight  of  liopes,  yet,  O, 
A  blighted  thing  is  the  life  of  Joe! 

Who  would  not  suffer  the  ills  of  life, 
Its  numberless  wrongs,  its  sin  and  strife, 
And  willingly  bear  its  weight  of  woe, 
Rather  than  be  the  idiot  Joe  ? 

I  think  of  him  in  the  silen*^  night. 
When  every  star  seems  a  beacon  light, 
To  guide  us  wanderers  here  below 
To  the  better  land  —  the  home  of  Joe. 

For  He  who  hears  when  the  ravens  call, 
And  watches  even  the  simrrow's  fall  — 
He,  in  his  measureless  love,  I  know, 
Will  kindly  care  for  the  soul  of  Joe. 


THE   DYING   ALCHEMIST.  153 


Willis. 

HE  night  wind  witli  a  desolate  moan  swept  by; 
And  tlie  old  shutters  of  the  turret  swung 
Screaming  upon  their  hinges ;  and  the  moon, 
As  the  torn  edges  of  the  clouds  flew  past, 
Struggled  aslant  the  stained  and  broken  panes 
So  dimly,  that  the  watchful  eye  of  death 
Scarcely  was  conscious  when  it  went  and  came. 
The  fire  beneath  his  crucible  was  low ; 
Yet  still  it  burned ;  and  ever  as  his  thoughts 
Grew  insupportable,  he  raised  himself 
Upon  his  wasted  arm,  and  stirred  the  coals 
With  difficult  energy ;  and  wlien  the  rod 
Fell  from  his  nerveless  fingers,  and  his  eye 
Felt  faint  within  its  socket,  he  shrunk  back 
Upon  his  pallet,  and  with  unclosed  lips 
Muttered  a  curse  on  death !     The  silent  room, 
From  its  dim  corners,  mockingly  gave  back 
His  rattling  breath;  the  humming  in  the  fire 
Had  the  distinctness  of  a  knell ;  and  when 
Duly  the  antique  horologe  beat  one. 
He  drew  a  phial  from  his  breast. 
And  drank.     And  instantly  his  lips  compressed. 
And,  with  a  shudder  in  his  skeleton  frame. 
He  rose  with  supernatural  strength,  and  sat 
Upright,  and  communed  with  himself :  — 

I  did  not  think  to  die 
Till  I  had  finished  what  I  had  to  do. 


154  THE   DYING   ALCHEMIST. 

I  thought  to  pierce  th'  eternal  secret  through 

With  this  my  mortal  eye ; 
I  felt  —  O  God!    it  seemeth  even  now 
This  cannot  be  the  death-dew  on  my  brow. 

And  yet  it  is  —  I  feel 
Of  this  dull  sickness  at  my  heart,  afraid ; 
And  in  my  eyes  the  death-sparks  flash  and  fade; 

And  something  seems  to  steal 
Over  my  bosom  like  a  frozen  hand, 
Binding  its  pulses  with  an  icy  band. 

And  tliis  is  death!     But  why 
Feel  I  this  wild  i-ecoil?     It  cannot  be 
Th'  immortal  sjiirit  shuddereth  to  be  free! 

Would  it  not  leap  to  fly, 
Like  a  chained  eaglet  at  its  parent's  call? 
I  fear  —  I  fear  —  that  this  jjoor  life  is  all. 

Yet  thus  to  pass  away ! 
To  live  but  for  a  hope  that  mocks  at  last; 
To  agonize,  to  strive,  to  watch,  to  fast, 

To  waste  the  light  of  day. 
Night's  better  beauty,  feeling,  fancy,  thought, 
All  that  we  have  and  are  —  for  this  —  for  nought 

Grant  me  another  year, 
God  of  my  spirit!  but  a  day,  to  win 
Something  to  satisfy  this  thirst  within. 

I  would  know  something  here. 
Break  for  me  but  one  seal  that  is  unbroken ! 
Speak  for  me  but  one  word  that  is  unspoken! 


THE   DYING   ALCHEMIST.  155 


Vain,  vain!  my  brain  is  turning 
With  a  swift  dizziness,  and  my  heart  grows  sick. 
And  these  hot  temple-throbs  come  fast  and  thick, 

And  I  am  freezing,  bm-ning, 
Dying.     O  God,  if  I  might  only  live! 
My  phial  — ha!  it  thrills  me;  I  revive. 

Ay,  were  not  man  to  die. 
He  were  too  mighty  for  tliis  nai-row  sphere. 
Had  he  but  time  to  brood  on  knowledge  here, 

Could  he  but  train  his  eye, 
Might  he  but  wait  the  mystic  word  and  hour. 
Only  his  Maker  would  transcend  his  power. 

Earth  has  no  mineral  strange, 
Th'  illimitable  air  no  liidden  wings. 
Water  no  quality  in  covert  springs. 

And  fire  no  power  to  change ; 
Seasons  no  mystery,  and  stars  no  spell. 
Which  the  unwasting  soul  might  not  compel. 

O,  but  for  time  to  track 
The  upper  stars  into  the  pathless  sky, 
To  see  th'  invisible  spirits,  eye  to  eye. 

To  hurl  the  lightning  back. 
To  tread  unhurt  the  sea's  dim-lighted  halls. 
To  chase  Day's  chariot  to  the  horizon  walls  — 

And  more,  much  more ;  for  now 
The  life-sealed  fountains  of  my  nature  move, 
To  nurse  and  purify  this  human  love; 


156  THE   DYING   ALCHEMIST. 

To  clear  the  godlike  brow 
Of  weakness  and  distrust,  and  bow  it  down, 
Woi'thy  and  beautiful,  to  the  much-loved  one. 

This  were  indeed  to  feel 
The  soul -thirst  slaken  at  the  living  stream; 
To  live  —  O  God!  that  life  is  but  a  dream! 

And  death  —  aha!  I  reel  — 
Dim  —  dim  —  I  faint!  darkness  comes  o'er  my  eye  ! 
Cover  me!  save  me.     God  of  heaven!    I  die! 

'Twas  morning,  and  the  old  man  lay  alone. 

No  friend  had  closed  his  eyelids,  and  his  lips. 

Open  and  ashy  pale,  th'  expression  wore 

Of  his  death  struggle.     His  long,  silvery  hair 

Lay  on  his  hollow  temples  thin  and  wild; 

His  frame  was  wasted,  and  his  features  wan 

And  haggard  as  with  want,  and  in  his  palm 

His  nails  were  driven  deep,  as  if  the  throe 

Of  the  last  agony  had  wrung  him  sore. 

Th3  storm  was  i-aging  still.     The  shutters  swung. 

Screaming  as  harshly  in  the  fitful  wind. 

And  all  without  went  on,  as  aye  it  will. 

Sunshine  or  tempest,  i-eckless  that  a  heart 

Is  breaking,  or  has  broken,  in  its  change. 

The  fire  beneath  the  crucible  was  out; 
The  vessels  of  his  mystic  art  lay  round, 
Useless  and  cold  as  the  ambitious  hand 
That  fashioned  them,  and  the  small  rod, 
Familiar  to  his  touch  for  threescore  years, 


THE   PLEASURES   OF   HOPE.  151 

Lay  on  th'  alembic's  rim,  as  if  it  still 
Might  vex  the  elements  at  its  master's  will. 

And  thus  had  passed  from  its  unequal  frame 
A  soul  of  fire  —  a  sun-bent  eagle  stricken 
From  his  high  soaring  down  —  an  instrument 
Broken  with  its  own  compass.     O,  how  poor 
Seems  the  rich  gift  of  genius,  when  it  lies, 
Like  the  adventurous  bird  that  hath  outflown 
His  strength  upon  the  sea,  ambition-wrecked  — 
A  thing  the  thrush  might  pity,  as  she  sits 
Brooding  in  quiet  on  her  lowly  nest. 

• — <:^:^^=^fe^ — • 


Campbell 


IS  summer  eve,  when  heaven's  ethereal  bow 

3T1I)  Sjians  witli  bright  arch  the  glittering  hills  below 
Why  to  yon  mountain  turns  the  musing  eye, 
Wliose  sun-bright  summit  mingles  with  the  sky? 
Wl»y  do  these  cliffs  of  shadowy  tint  appear 
More  sweet  than  all  the  landscape  smiling  near? 
'Tis  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view. 
And  robes  the  mountain  in  its  azure  hue. 
Thus,  with  delight,  we  linger  to  survey: 
The  promised  joy  of  life's  unmeasured  scene 
More  pleasing  seems  than  all  the  past  hath  been ; 
And  every  form  that  Fancy  can  repair. 
From  dark  oblivion,  glows  divinely  there. 


158  JUNE. 


^ryant 

HERE,  through  the  long,  long  summer  hours, 

The  golden  light  should  lie, 
And  thick  young  herbs  and  groups  of  flowers 

Stand  in  their  beauty  by. 
The  oriole  should  build  and  tell 
His  love-tale  close  beside  my  cell; 

The  idle  butterfly 
Should  rest  him  there,  and  there  he  heard 
The  house-wife  bee  and  humming-bird. 

And  Avhat,  if  cheerful  shouts,  at  noon. 

Come  from  the  village  sent. 
Or  songs  of  maids,  beneath  the  moon. 

With  fairy  laughter  blent? 
And  what  if,  in  the  evening  light, 
Betrothed  lovers  walk  in  sight 

Of  my  low  monument.'* 
I  would  the  lovely  scene  around 
Might  know  no  sadder  sight  or  sound. 

I  know,  I  know  I  should  not  see 

The  season's  glorious  show, 
Nor  would  its  brightness  shine  for  me, 

Nor  its  wild  music  flow; 
But  if,  around  my  place  of  sleep. 
The  friends  I  love  should  come  to  weep^ 

They  might  not  haste  to  go. 


•XHE   VILLAGE   PREACHER.  159 


Soft  airs,  and  sonfj,  and  light,  and  bloom 
Should  keep  them  lingering  by  my  tomb. 

These  to  their  softened  hearts  should  bear 
The  thought  of  what  has  been, 

And  speak  of  one  who  cannot  share 
Tlie  gladness  of  the  scene ; 

Whose  part  in  all  the  pomp  that  fills 

The  circuit  of  the  summer  hills, 
Is,  that  his  grave  is  green; 

And  deeply  would  their  hearts  rejoice 

To  hear  again  his  living  voice. 


• — <^>s^ — 

Goldsmith, 


EAR  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden-flower  grows  wild, 
►  There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
*The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear. 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year ; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change  his  place; 
Unskilful  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power 
By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour  : 


160  THE   VILLAGE   PREACHER. 

Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize, 
More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train; 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain; 
The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast; 
The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away; 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  showed  how  fields  were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe ; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue's  side ; 
But,  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call. 
He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt  for  all; 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies. 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay. 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 
Beside  the  bed  where  2:»arting  life  was  laid. 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns  dismayed. 
The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  control, 
Desjiair  and  anguish  fled  tiie  struggling  soul; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last,  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 


HE  livp:s  long  who  lives  well.  161 


At  church,  Avith  meek  and  un:iffected  grace, 

His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place ; 

Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway. 

And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remained  to  pray. 

The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 

With  ready  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran ; 

E'en  children  followed  with  endearing  wile, 

And  plucked  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's  smile; 

His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  expressed ; 

Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distressed; 

To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 

But  all  his  serious  thought  had  rest  in  heaven. 

As  some  tall  clift'  that  lifts  its   awful  form, 

Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm. 

Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread, 

Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

m  y.ws  Lonf  Wh@  Llws  Well. 

Ilandolph, 


OULDST  thou  live  long?     The  only  means  are 
^  these  — 

y-UJ/VM  'Bove  Galen's  diet,  or  Hippocrates' : 
'    "  Strive  to  live  well;  tread  in  the  upright  ways. 

And  rather  count  thy  actions  than  thy  days : 
Then  thou  hast  lived  enough  amongst  us  here, 
For  every  day  well  spent  I  count  a  year. 
Live  well,  and  then,  how  soon  soe'er  thou  die. 
Thou  art  of  age  to  claim  eternity. 


162  FAIR    INES. 


But  he  that  outlives  Nestor,  and  appears 

To  have  passed  the  date  of  gray  Methuselah's  years, 

If  he  his  life  to  sloth  and  sin  doth  give, 

I  say  he  only  was  —  he  did  not  live. 


Hood. 


-»-"Sf&a<~ 


SAW  ye  not  fair  Ines  ? 

She's  gone  into  the  west. 
To  dazzle  when  the  sun  is  down 

And  rob  the  world  of  rest ; 
She  took  our  daylight  with  her. 

The  smiles  that  we  love  best. 
With  morning  blushes  on  her  check, 

And  pearls  upon  her  breast. 

0,  turn  again,  fair  Ines, 

Before  the  fall  of  night, 
For  fear  the  moon  should  shine  alone, 

And  stars  unrivalled  bright ; 
And  blessed  will  the  lover  be 

That  walks  beneath  their  light. 
And  breathes  the  love  against  thy  cheek 

I  dare  not  even  write. 

Would  I  had  been,  fair  Ines, 

That  gallant  cavalier 
Who  rode  so  gayly  by  thy  side, 

And  whispered  thee  so  near; 


FAIR    INKS.  163 


Were  there  no  bonny  dames  at  home, 

Or  no  true  lovers  here. 
That  he  should  cross  the  seas  to  win 

The  dearest  of  the  dear? 

I  saw  thee,  lovely  Ines, 

Descend  along  the  shore, 
With  bands  of  noble  gentlemen, 

And  banners  waved  before  ; 
And  gentle  youth  and  maidens  gay, 

And  snowy  plumes  they  wore  , 
It  would  have  been  a  beauteous  dream. 

If  it  had  been  before. 

Alas,  alas,  fair  Ines, 

She  went  away  with  song, 
With  music  waiting  on  her  steps. 

And  shoutings  of  the  throng ; 
But  some  were  sad  and  felt  no  mirth, 

But  only  Music's  wrong, 
In  sounds  that  sang,  Farewell,  farewell 

To  her  you've  loved  so  long. 

Farewell,  farewell,  fair  Ines ; 

That  vessel  never  bore 
So  fair  a  lady  on  its  deck, 

Nor  danced  so  light  before  ; 
Alas  for  pleasure  on  the  sea. 

And  sorrow  on  the  shore  ; 
The  smile  that  blest  one  lover's  heart 

Has  broken  many  more. 


164  THE    GRAVES    OK    A    HOUSEHOLD. 


JVLrs.  Hemans 


IIEY  grew  in  beauty  side  by  side, 
They  filled  one  lioiiie  with  glee ; 

Their  graves  are  severed,  far  and  wide, 
By  mount,  and  stream,  and  sea. 

The  same  fond  mother  bent  at  night 
O  er  each  fair  sleeping  brow  ; 
She  had  each  folded  flower  in  sight  — 
Where  are  those  dreamers  now  ? 


One,  'midst  the  forest  of  the  west, 

By  a  dark  stream  is  laid  — 
The  Indian  knows  his  place  of  rest, 

Far  in  the  cedar  shade 

The  sea,  the  blue  lone  sea,  hath  one  — 
He  lies  where  pearls  lie  deep; 

He  was  the  loved  of  all,  yet  none 
Oer  his  low  bed  may  weep 

One  sleeps  where  southern  vines  are  dressed, 

Above  the  noble  slain  ; 
He  wrapped  his  colors  round  his  breast 

On  a  blood-red  field  of  Spain. 

And  one  —  o'er  her  the  myrtle  showera 
Its  leaves,  by  soft  winds  fanned; 

She  faded  'midst  Italian  flowers. 
The  last  of  that  bright  band. 


166 


And  parted  thus  they  rest,  who  played 
Beneath  the  same  green  tree; 

Whose  voices  mingled  as  they  j^rayed 
Around  one  parent  knee! 

They  that  with  smiles  lit  up  the  hall, 
And  cheered  with  song  the  hearth  — 

Alas!  for  love,  if  thou  wert  all, 
And  nought  beyond,  O  earth! 

"cagt?Ci" 


HE  spark  of  life  is  like  a  spark  of  fire; 
It  flashes  forth  its  beauty,  and  is  gone; 

So  dies  the  minstrel,  leaving  Fancy's  lyre 

Bereft  of  heart,  and  chords,  and  song,  and  tun« 
Silent,  because  it  cannot  sing  alone. 

Meaawliile,  all  those  who  loved  it  mourn  and  wlp|j 

For  loss  of  him  with  whom  it  could  not  sleep. 


Yet  leaves  he  pearls  behind  —  a  glorious  name, 
That  time  would  fear  to  kill,  so  passeth  by; 

A  dearly  cherished  memorj^,  a  fame 
Forbid  by  immortality  to  die, 
The  crown  for  which  a  world  of  poets  sigh ; 

A  fairy  tree,  which  he  alone  could  find. 

From  \yhence  he  plucked  the  bay  leaves  of  the  min» 


IQQ  THE  OPENING  OF  THE  PIANO. 


Atlantic  Jlonthly. 


N  the  little  southern  parlor  of  the  house  you  may 
have  seen 

With  the  gambrel  roof  and  the  gable  looking  west- 
ward to  the  green, 

At  the  side  toward  the  sunset,  with  the  window  on 
its  right, 

Stood  the  London-made  piano  I  am  dreaming  of 
to-night. 

Ah  me!  how  I  remember  the  evening  when  it  came! 
What  a  ciy  of  eager  voices!  what  a  group  of  cheeks  in 

flame! 
When  the  wondrous  box  was  opened  that  had  come  from 

over  seas. 
With  its   smell   of  mastic   varnish  and   its  flash  of  ivory 

keys ! 

Then  the  children  all  grew  fretful  in  the  restlessness  of  joy, 
For  the   boy  would  push  his  sister  and  the  sister  crowd 

the  boy, 
Till  the  fiither  asked  for  quiet  in  his  grave,  paternal  way, 
But  the  mother  hushed  the  tumult  with  the  words,  "  Now, 

Mary,  play." 

For  the  dear  soul  knew  that  music  was  a  very  sovereign 

balm ; 
She  had  sprinkled  it  o'er  Sorrow,  and  seen  its  brow  grow 

calm, 


THE   OPENING   OF   THE   PIANO.  161 

In    the   clays   of    slender  harpsichords    with  the   tajiping, 

tinkling  quills, 
Or  carolling  to  her  spinet  with  its  thin  metallic  thrills. 

So  Mary,  the   household   minstrel,    who   alwaj^s   loved   tc 

please. 
Sat  down  to  the  new  "Clementi,"  and  struck  the  glitter 

ing  keys. 
Hushed  were  the  children's  voices,  and  every  eye  grew 

dim 
As,   floating    from    lip    and    finger,    arose    the   "  Vespei 

Hymn." 

Catharine,  child  of  a  neighbor,  curly  and  rosy-red. 
Wedded    since    and    widow,  —  something  like   ten    yeav 

dead, — 
Hearing  a  gush  of  music  such  as  none  had  heard  before. 
Steals  from  her  mother's  chamber,  and  peeps  at  the  open 

door. 

Just  as  the  "Jubilate"  in  threaded  whisper  dies, 
''Open  it!  open  it,  l:idy!"  the  little  maiden  cries, 
(For  she  thought  'twas  a  singing  creature  caged  in  a  box 

she  heard;) 
"-'•  Open  it!  open  it,  lady,  and  let  me  see  the  bird!" 


168  THE   BEAUTIFUL. 


^  ALK  with  the  Beautiful  and  with  the  Grand; 
^      Let  nothing  on  the  earth  thy  feet  deter ; 
Sorrow  may  lead  thee  weeping  by  the  hand. 
But  give  not  all  thy  bosom  thoughts  to  her: 
Walk  with  the  Beautiful. 

I  hear  thee  say,  "  The  Beautiful !      What  is  it?  "■ 
O,  thou  art  dai'kly  ignorant!     Be  sure 
'Tis  no  long,  weary  road  its  form  to  visit ; 

For  thou  canst  make  it  smile  beside  thy  door:  — 
Then  love  the  Beautiful. 

Ay,  love  it;  'tis  a  sister  that  will  bless. 

And  teacli  thee  patience  when  the  heart  is  lonely; 

The  angels  love  it,  for  they  wear  its  dress ; 
And  thou  art  made  a  little  lower  only;  — 
Then  love  the  Beautiful. 

Sigh  for  it,  —  clasp  it  when  'tis  in  thy  way! 

Be  its  idolator,  as  of  a  maiden ! 
Thy  parents  bent  to  it,  and  more  than  they;  — 

Be  thou  its  worshipper.     Another  Eden 
Comes  witli  the  Bciautiful. 

Some  boast  its  presence  in  a  Grecian  face ; 

Some,  on  a  favorite  warbler  of  the  skies ; 
But  be  not  foiled;  where'er  thine  eyes  might  trace, 

Seeking  the  Beautiful,  it  will  arise ;  — 
Then  seek  it  every  where. 


THE   BABY.  169 


Thy  bosom  is  its  mint;  the  workmen  are 

Thy  thoughts ;  and  they  must  coin  for  thee :  believing 
The  Beautiful  exists  in  every  star, 

Thou  mak'st  it  so,  and  art  thyself  deceiving 
If  otherwise  thy  faith. 

Thou  seest  Beauty  in  the  violet's  cup;  — 

I'll  teach  thee  miracles !     Walk  on  this  heath, 

And  say  to  the  neglected  flower,  "  Look  up, 
And  be  thou  Beautiful!"     If  thou  hast  faith, 
It  will  obey  thy  word. 

One  thing  I  warn  thee ;  bow  no  knee  to  gold ; 

Less  innocent  it  makes  the  guileless  tongue; 
It  turns  the  feelings  prematurely  old ; 

And  they  who  keep  their  best  aft'ections  young. 
Best  love  the  Beautiful. 


-    _finon. 


NOTIIER  little  wave 

Upon  the  sea  of  life ; 
Another  soul  to  save. 
Amid  its  toils  and  strife. 

Two  more  little  feet 
To  walk  the  dusty  road ; 

To  choose  where  two  paths  meet. 
The  naiTow,  or  the  broad. 


170  TO    A    FKIEND. 


Two  more  little  hands 
To  work  for  good  or  ill ; 

Two  more  little  eyes  ; 
Another  little  will. 

Another  heart  to  love, 
Receiving  love  again ; 

And  so  the  baby  came, 
A  thing  of  joy  and  pain. 


(X)aniel  Jl.  (2)rowrl,. 


S  twilight  fades  upon  the  west, 

And  zephyrs  yield  their  rich  bequest 
Of  odors  to  the  evening  air, 
From  leaflets  and  from  flowerets  fair, 
So  may  fresh  incense  for  you  rise, 
When  time  shall  shade  your  future  skies. 
To  soothe  with  peace  those  future  years 

When  strength  grows  weak,  and  hopes  and  fears, 

As  tendrils  of  the  running  vine 

Around  the  oak  their  grasp  entwine. 

To  find  support  to  rise  on  high. 

As  if  to  seek  the  fair  blue  sky. 

So  may  your  hopes  like  ivy  cling 

To  truth,  a  constant  peace  to  bring, 


EFFECT   OF   ORATORY   ON   A   MULTITUDE.  171 


And  bid  your  faith  seek  clearer  skies, 

Wliere  joy  fails  not,  where  sorrow  dies 

As  gently  as  the  evening  breeze 

Soft  whispeis  through  the  murmuring  trees. 

As  calmly  as  the  crystal  tide 

Kisses  the  pebbles  by  its  side. 

In  all  your  ways  appear  to  all. 

Nor  shun  the  weak,  when  once  they  fall ; 

But  flowers  scatter  in  the  way. 

And  cheer  their  hearts,  as  best  you  may. 


IS  words  seemed  oracles 

That  pierced  their  bosoms;  'and  sach  man  would 
turn 

And  gaze  in  wonder  on  his  neighbor's  face. 

That  with  the  like  dumb  wonder  answered  him ; 

Then  some  would  weep,  some  shout,  some,  deepei 
touched, 

Keep  down  the  cry  with  motion  of  their  hands, 
In  fear  but  to  have  lost  a  syllable. 
The  evening  came,  yet  there  the  people  stood, 
As  if  'twere  noon,  and  they  the  marble  sea. 
Sleeping  without  a  wave.     You  could  have  heard 
The  beating  of  your  pulses  while  he  spoke. 


172  THE    RAVEN. 


Edgar  jfl.  CPoe. 


NCE  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered, 
weak  and  weary, 
JaI  ^  M        Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of 
forgotten  lore. 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there 
came  a  tapping. 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my 
chamber  door. 
"  'Tis  some  visitor,"  I   muttered,  "  tapping  at  my  cham- 
ber door  ; 

Only  this,  and  nothing  more." 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember,  it  was  in  the  bleak  December, 

And  each  separate,  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon 

the  floor. 

Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow;  vainly  I  had  sought  to  borrow 

From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow,  sorrow  for  the  lost 

Lenore, 
For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name 
Lenore, 

Nameless  here  forevermore. 

And   the   silken,  sad,  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple 

curtain 
Thrilled  me,  filled  me,  with  fantastic  terrors  never  felt 

before  ; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating   of  my  heart,  I   stood 

repeating, 


THE    RAVEN.  173 


"  'Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 

door, 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 

door  ; 

This  it  is,  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger ;  hesitating  then  no  longer, 
"Sir,"  said  I,  "or  madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I  im- 
plore; 
But  the  fact  is,  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came 
rapping, 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  cham- 
ber door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you."     Here  I  opened 
wide  the  door  ;  — 

Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  the  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there,  won- 
dering, fearing. 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortals  ever  dared  to 
dream  before  ; 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave  no 
token. 
And   the  only  word   there   spokea  was   the  whispered 

word,  "  Lenore  ;  " 
This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo   murmured  back  the 
word,  "  Lenore." 

Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 

Back  into   the  chamber  turning,  all   my  soul  within  me 
burning. 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping,  something  louder  than 
before. 


174  THE    RAVEN. 


"  Surely,"  said  I,  "  surely,  that  is  something  at  my  win- 
dow lattice  ; 
Let  me  see,  then,  what   thereat   is,  and   this    mystery 

explore ; 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment,  and  this  mystery  ex- 
plore ; 

'Tis  the  wind,  and  nothing  more." 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,   when,   with  many  a  flirt 
and  flutter. 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  raven,  of  the  saintly  days 
of  yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he  ;  not  a  minute  stopped 
or  staid  he  ; 
But  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my  cham- 
ber door, 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my  chamber 
door  ; 

Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then    this    ebon    bird    beguiling    ray    sad    fancy   into 
smiling, 
By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it 
wore, 
"  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I  said, 
"  art  sure  no  craven. 
Ghastly,  grim,  and  ancient  raven,  wandering  from  the 

Nightly  shore. 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Pluto- 
nian shore." 

Quoth  the  raven,  "Nevermore." 


THE    RAVEN.  175 


Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so 
plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning,  little  relevancy  bore ; 
For  we    cannot   holp   agreeing    that    no    living  human 
being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  cham- 
ber door. 
Bird  or  beast  upon    the    sculptured    bust    above  his 
chamber  door, 

With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore." 

But  the  raven,  sitting   lonely  on  that  placid  bust,  spoke 
only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did 
outpour. 
Nothing  further  then  he  uttered ;  not  a  feather  then  he 
fluttered ; 
Till  I  scarcely  more   than   muttered,  "  Other  friends 

have  flown  before  ; 
On  the  morrow  he  will   leave   me,  as   my  hopes   have 
flown  before." 

Then  the  bird  said,  "  Nevermore." 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 

"  Doubtless,"  said  I,  "  what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock 

and  store. 

Caught  from  some  unhappy  master,  whom  unmerciful 

disaster 

Followed  fast  and  followed  faster,  till  his  scngs  one 

burden  bore, 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  hope  that  melancholy  burden  boie. 
Of  "  Never  —  nevermore." 


176  THE    RAVEN. 


But  the  raven  still  beguiling  all  my  sad  soul  into  smiling, 

Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird  and 

bust  and  door ; 

Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to  linking 

Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of 

yore, 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous 
bird  of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking,  "  Nevermore." 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  expressing 
To  the  fowl,  whose   fiery  eyes   now  burned   into   my 
bosom's  core  ; 
This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease  re- 
clining 
On    the    cushion's    velvet   lining    that    the    lamplight 

gloated  o'er, 
But  whose    velvet   violet    lining    with    the    lamplight 
gloating  o'er, 

She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore. 

Then,  methought,  the  air  drew  denser,  perfumed  from  an 
unseen  censer 
Swung    by   Seraphim    whose   footfalls   tinkled  on  the 
tufted  floor. 
"  Wretch,"  I  cried,   "  thy  God   hath  lent   thee    by  these 
angels  he  hath  sent  thee 
Respite  — respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  memories  of 

Lenore  ! 
QuaflP,  O  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this  lost 
Lenore ! " 

Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore.' 


TIIK    UAVKX. 


177 


"  Prophet !  "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil !  —  prophet  still,  it 
bird  or  devil ! 
Whether  temptei-  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee 
here  ashore, 
Desolate,  yet  all  undaunted,  on   this  desert  land  en- 
chanted, — 
On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted  —  tell  me  truly,  T 

implore  — 
Is  there  —  is  there  balm  in  Gilead?  —  tell  me  —  tell 
me,  I  implore  !  " 

Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore." 

'•Prophet!  "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil  —  prophet  still,  if 
bird  or  devil ! 
By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us  —  by  that  God 
we  both  adore  — 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden,  if,  within  the  distant 
Aideun, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden,  whom  the  angels  name 

Lenore  — 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden,  whom  the  angels 
name  Lenore  ?  ' ' 

Quoth  the  raven,  "Nevermore." 

"  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend  !  "  I 
shrieked,  upstarting  — 
"Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and    the  night's 
Plutonian  shore  ! 
Leave   no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul 
hath  spoken  ! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken  !  —  quit  the  bust  above 
my  door ! 


178  PLEASURES    OP     JMEMOUY 


Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form 
from  off  my  door  !  " 

Quoth  the  raven,  "Nevermore." 

And    the    raven,  never    flitting,  still    is   sitting,  still   is 
sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just   above   my  chamber 
door  ; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the   seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is 
dreaming  ; 
And  the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming  throws  the  shadow 

on  the  floor ; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on 
the  floor, 

Shall  be  lifted  —  nevermore  ! 


Jlore. 


)IKE  a  gale  that  sighs  along 
Beds  of  Oriental  flowers. 
Is  the  grateful  breath  of  song 
f^^'p^''^'      That  once  was  heard  in  happier  hours ; 
te'O    Filled  with  balm,  the  gale  sighs  on, 
^CS  Though  the  flowers  are  sunk  in  death; 

So  when  pleasure's  dream  is  gone. 
Its  memory  lives  in  music's  breath. 


KEFLECTIONS.  179 


«+•«*- 


IdW 


Crabhe 


^  HEN  all  the  fiercer  passions  cease, 
J)     (The  glory  and  disgrace  of  youth ;) 
When  the  deluded  soul,  in  peace, 

Can  listen  to  the  voice  of  truth; 
When  we  are  taught  in  whom  to  trust. 

And  how  to  spare,  to  spend,  to  give, 
(Our  prudence  kind,  our  pity  just,)  — 

'Tis  then  we  rightly  learn  to  live. 
Its  weakness  when  tlie  body  feels. 

Nor  danger  in  contempt  defies. 
To  reason  when  desire  appeals. 

When  on  experience  hope  relies; 
When  every  passing  hour  we  prize. 

Nor  rashly  on  our  follies  spend. 
But  use  it,  as  it  quickly  flies. 

With  sober  aim  to  serious  end; 
When  prudence  bounds  our  utmost  views, 

And  bids  us  wrath  and  wrong  forgive; 
When  we  can  calnd}'  gain  or  lose,  — 

'Tis  then  we  rightly  learn  to  live. 

Yet  thus,  when  we  our  way  discern. 
And  can  upon  our  care  depend, 

To  travel  safely  when  we  learn. 

Behold!  weVe  near  our  journey's  end 

We've  trod  the  maze  of  error  round, 
Long  wandering  in  the  winding  glade; 


180  REFLECTIONS. 


And,  now  the  torch  of  truth  is  found. 
It  only  shows  us  where  we  strayed ; 

Light  for  ourselves,  what  is  it  worth. 
When  we  no  more  our  way  can  choose? 

For  others,  when  we  hold  it  forth. 
They,  in  their  pride,  the  boon  refuse. 

By  long  experience  taught,  we  now 

Can  rightly  judge  of  friends  and  foes. 
Can  all  the  worth  of  these  allow. 

And  all  their  faults  discern  in  those; 
Relentless  hatred,  erring  love. 

We  can  for  sacred  truth  forego; 
We  can  the  warmest  friend  reprove, 

And  bear  to  praise  the  fiercest  foe : 
To  what  effect?     Our  friends  are  gone 

Beyond  reproof,  regard,  or  care ; 
And  of  our  foes  remains  there  one. 

The  mild,  relenting  thoughts  to  share? 
Now  'tis  our  boast  that  we  can  quell 

The  wildest  passions  in  their  rage; 
Can  their  destructive  force  repel. 

And  their  impetuous  wrath  assuage! 

Ah!  virtue,  dost  thou  arm,  when  now 

This  bold,  rebellious  race  are  fled; 
When  all  these  tyrants  rest,  and  thou 

Art  warring  with  the  mighty  dead? 
flevenge,  ambition,  scorn,  and  pride. 

And  strong  desire,  and  fierce  disdain. 
The  giant  brood  by  thee  defied, 

Lo,  Time's  resistless  strokes  have  slain. 


REFLECTIONS.  181 


Yet  Time,  who  could  that  race  subdue, 

(O'erpowering  strength,  appeasing  rage,) 
Leaves  yet  a  persevering  crew, 

To  try  the  failing  powers  of  age. 
Vexed  by  the  constant  call  of  these. 

Virtue  a  while  for  conquest  tries ; 
But  weary  grown  and  fond  of  ease. 

She  makes  with  them  a  compromise : 
Avarice  himself  she  gives  to  rest. 

But  rules  him  with  her  strict  commands. 
Bids  Pity  touch  her  torpid  breast. 

And  Justice  hold  his  eager  hands. 

Yet  is  fhere  nothing  men  can  do, 

When  chilling  age  comes  creeping  on? 
Cannot  we  yet  some  good  pursue? 

Are  talents  buried?  genius  gone? 
If  passions  slumber  in  the  breast. 

If  follies  from  the  heart  be  fled, 
Of  laurels  let  us  go  in  quest. 

And  place  them  on  the  poet's  head. 
Yes,  'twill  redeem  the  wasted  time, 

And  to  neglected  studies  flee; 
We'll  build  again  the  lofty  rhyme, 

Or  live.  Philosophy,  with  thee. 

For  reasoning  clear,  for  flight  sublime, 

Eternal  fame  reward  shall  be ; 
And  to  what  glorious  heights  Ave'll  climb. 

The  admiring  crowd  shall  envying  see. 
Begin  the  song!  begin  the  theme!  — 


182  REFLECTIONS. 


Alas !  and  is  Invention  dead  ? 
Dream  we  no  more  the  golden  dream? 

Is  Memory  with  her  treasures  fled? 
Yes,  'tis  too  late,  —  now  reason  guides 

The  mind,  sole  judge  in  all  debate; 
And  thus  the  important  point  decides, 

For  laurels,  'tis,  alas,  too  late ! 
What  is  possessed  we  may  retain, 
But  for  new  conquests  strive  in  vain. 

Beware  then,  Age,  that  what  was  won 

In  life's  past  labors,  studies,  views, 
Be  lost  not,  now  the  labor's  done. 

When  all  thy  part  is,  —  not  to  lo§e : 
When  thou  canst  toil  or  gain  no  more, 
Desti'oy  not  what  was  gained  before; 

For  all  that's  gained  of  all  that's  good. 
When  Time  shall  his  weak  frame  destroy, 

(Their  use  then  rightly  understood,) 
Shall  man  in  happier  state  enjoy. 

O,  argument  for  truth  divine. 
For  study's  cares,  for  virtue's  strife. 

To  know  the  enjoyment  will  l)e  thiney 
In  that  renewed,  that  endless  life ! 


THE    SERENADE.  18i> 


ARISE  from  dreams  of  thee 

In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 
When  tlie  winds  are  breathing  low, 

And  the  stars  are  shining  bright. 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 

And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Has  led  me  —  who  knows  how  ?  — 

To  thy  chamber-window,  sweet ! 

The  wandering  airs,  they  faint 

On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream  — 
The  champak  odors  fail 

Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream  ; 
The  nightingale's  complaint, 

It  dies  upon  the  heart. 
As  I  must  die  on  thine, 

0,  beloved  as  thou  art ! 

0,  lift  me  from  the  grass ! 

I  die,  I  faint,  I  fail ! 
Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 

On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 
My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas! 

My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast : 
0,  press  it  close  to  thine  again, 

Where  it  will  break  at  last ! 


Shelley. 


184 


E.   C.  (Pinckney 


FILL  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon, 
To  whom  the  better  elements 

And  kindly  stars  have  given 
A  form  so  fair,  that,  like  the  air, 

'Tis  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 


Her  every  tone  is  music's  own, 

Like  those  of  morning  birds. 
And  something  more  than  melody 

Dwells  ever  in  her  words ; 
The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they, 

And  from  her  lips  each  flows 
As  one  may  see  the  burdened  bee 

Forth  issue  from  the  i-ose. 


Affections  are  as  thoughts  to  her, 

The  measure  of  her  hours; 
Her  feelings  have  the  fragrancy, 

The  freshness  of  young  flowers ; 
And  lovely  passions,  changing  oft. 

So  fill  her,  she  appears 
The  image  of  themselves  by  turns- 

The  idol  of  past  years! 


TO  THE  POUTKAIT   OF   ONE    "GONE   BEFORE."        I85 

Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace 

A  picture  on  the  brain, 
And  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts 

A  sound  must  long  remain; 
But  memory,  such  as  mine  of  her, 

So  very  much  endears, 
Wlien  death  is  nigli,  my  latest  sigh 

Will  not  be  life's,  but  hers. 

I  filled  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon  — 
Her  health !  and  would  on  earth  there  stood 

Some  moi-e  of  such  a  frame, 
That  life  might  be  all  poetry. 

And  weariness  a  name. 

>'t  j$ti- • 


T@  tie  Portrait  @f  ©m©  **  f @ie  lifwe,'' 

Jkfrs.  Jl.  jW".   ^utterfield- 


PON  thy  pictured  lineaments  I  looked. 

Thy  proud,  bright  eye,  thy  full  and  firm-set  lips, 

Where    so    much   power,    and   yet  such  softness* 

^^y  - 

^  Such    majesty    enthroned    upon    the   pale,  calm 
brow  — 
And  marvelled  death  could  quench  so  much  of 
life; 


186  ANGEL   OF  THE  RAIN. 

That  one  so  many  human  hearts  could  sway, 
Could  go  down  in  the  silent  grave  to  dwell. 
But,  as  I  gazed  e'en  through  the  mist  of  teai's, 
There  shone  a  clearer  light;  and  now  I  know 
Tliat  Death  is  but  the  flaring  of  the  torch. 
When  angels  bear  it  from  its  house  of  clay 
Forth  to  the  outer  air,  where  it  shall  bui-n 
Free  and  with  undimmed  radiance,  evermore. 
And  though  the  world  is  lone  without  thee, 
And  from  day  to  day  thy  iDresence  more  we  miss, 
Yet  still  the  time  is  swiftly  drawing  nigh, 
When  tve  must  tread  the  dim  and  narrow  path ; 
And  blessed  thej'  who  groping  in  its  gloom, 
Though  sightless,  still  can  feel  the  clasping  hands 
Of  them  that  went  before,  and  know  the  way. 


Harriet  Ji^cEwen  Kimball, 
— ^s^&ftr— - 

WAKE  thy  cloud-harp,  angel  of  the  rain! 

SAveep  thy  dark  fingers  o'er  the  waiting  strings ; 
And  pour  thy  melodies  in  silvery  showers 
In  the  great  heart  of  earth ! 

I  love  thy  notes  when  in  the  hush  of  night 
They  fall  with  tranquil  gladness  on  the  roof. 
Liquid  and  faint  as  laughter  heai'd  in  dreams. 


WORLDLY   TREASURES.  187 

I  love  thy  music  when,  with  wildest  power. 
Thy  unseen  fingers  smite  the  answering  chords, 
And  torrents  of  bewildering  fantasies 
Deluge  the  mighty  hills  and  lovely  vales. 

I  love  thy  notes  when  thou  dost  improvise 
Melodious  strains  to  charm  the  royal  Day 
Whose  "sunbeam  fingers,"  at  its  closing,  fling 
A  rainbow  wreath  athwart  the  dripping  strings. 


^ailey 


'LL  woo  thee,  world,  again. 
And  revel  in  thy  loveliness  and  love. 
I  have  a  heart  with  room  for  every  joy, 
And  since  we  must  part  sometime,  while  T  may 
I'll  quaff  the  nectar  in  tliy  flowers,  and  press 
The  richest  clusters  of  thy  luscious  fruit 
Into  the  cujD  of  my  desires.     I  know 
My  years  are  numbered  not  in  units  yet. 
But  I  cannot  live  unless  I  love  and  am  loved, 
Unless  I  have  the  young  and  beautiful 
Bound  up  like  pictures  in  my  book  of  life. 
It  is  the  intensest  vanity  alone 

Which  makes  us  bear  with  life.     Some  seem  to  live 
Whose  heai-ts  are  like  those  unenliglitened  stars 
Of  the  first  darkness,  lifeless,  timeless,  useless, 


THE   DEATH   OF   THE   FLOWERS. 


With  nothing  but  a  cold  night  air  about  them; 

Not  suns,  not  planets;  darkness  organized; 

Orbs  of  a  desert  darkness ;  with  no  soul 

To  light  its  watch-fires  in  the  wilderness, 

And  civilize  the  solitude  one  moment. 

There  are  such  seemingly ;  but  how  or  why 

They  live,  I  know  not.     This  to  me  is  life; 

That  if  life  be  a  burden,  I  will  join 

To  make  it  but  the  burden  of  a  song; 

I  hate  the  world's  coarse  thought.     And  this  is  life; 

To  watch  young  beauty's  bud-like  feelings  burst 

And  load  the  soul  with  love;  as  that  pale  flower, 

Which  opes  at  eve,  spreads  sudden  on  the  dark 

Its  yellow  bloom,  and  sinks  the  air  down  with  its  sweets. 

Let  heaven  take  all  that's  good,  hell  all  that's  foul; 

Leave  us  the  lovely,  and  we  will  ask  no  more. 


'i^^i' 


^ryanx 


HE   melancholy   days   are   come,   the   saddest  o| 
the  yeai-, 

Of  wailing  winds,   and  naked  woods,  and  mead^ 
ows  brown  and  sere. 
G)  Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the  withered 
leaves  lie  dead ; 

They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to  the  rab- 
bit's tread. 


THE   DEATH   OF   THE   FLOWERS.  189 


The  robin   and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from  the  shrub 

the  jay. 
And  from   the  wood-top  calls  the   crow,   through  all  the 

gloomy  day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers,  that  lately 
sprung  and  stood 

In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs,  a  beauteous  sisterhood? 

Alas!  they  all  are  in  their  graves;  the  gentle  race  of 
flowers 

Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds  with  the  fair  and  good  of 
ours. 

The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie;  but  the  cold  Novem- 
ber rain 

Calls  not,  from  out  the  gloomy  earth,  the  lovely  ones 
again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  perished  long  ago, 
And  the  wild  rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid  the  summer's 

glow ; 
But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod,  and  the  aster  in  the  wood. 
And  the  yellow  sun-flower  by  the  brook  in  autumn  beauty 

stood. 
Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear,  cold  heaven,  as  falls  the 

plague  on  men, 
And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone  from  upland, 

glade,  and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes   the  calm,  mild  day,  as  still  such 

days  will  come. 
To  call   the   squirrel   and  the  bee  from  out  their  winter 

home. 


190 


THE   AURORA   BOREAIJS. 


When    the    sound   of  dropping  nuts   is  heard,  though  all 

the  trees  are  still, 
And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the  rill, 
The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers,  Avhose  fragrance 

late  he  bore, 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the  stream  no 

more. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  lier  youthful  beauty  died. 
The  fair;  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and  faded  by  my  side; 
In  the  cold,  moist  earth  we  laid  her,  wlien  the  forest  cast 

the  leaf; 
And  we   wept   that   one    so   lovely   sh  >uld    have  a  life  so 

brief; 
Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one  like  that  young  friend  of 

ours. 
So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish  with  the  flow(;rs. 


IB. 
H.  F.   Gould. 


T  fades!    it  shifts!    and  appears 

An  army  bi-ight  with  shields  and  spears, 

That,  winding  on  in  proud  array. 

Up  the  blue  lioights  j^irsue  their  way, 

With  waving  plumes  and  banners,  wher© 

No  eagle's  wing  e'er  cleaved  the  air; 

Now  charging  on  in  frenzy  wild, 

Then,  turning  off,  in  thin  defile, 


NEW   ENGLAND.  191 


Battalions,  now  again  they  march 

Beneutli  the  liigh  triumphal  arch, 

And  while  the  vast  pavilion  spreads 

Gold-fringed  and  tasselled  o'er  their  lieads, 

A  zenith  loop  superbly  holds 

Its  emerald  green  and  purple  folds. 


finon. 


TERN  land !  we  love  thy  woods  and  rocks, 
Thy  rushing  streams  and  wintry  glooms, 

And  memory,  like  a  pilgrim  gray, 
Kneels  at  thy  temples  and  thy  tombs ; 

The  thoughts  of  thee,  where'er  we  dwell, 

Come  o'er  us  like  a  holy  spell,  — 
A  star  to  light  onr  path  of  tears, 
A  rainbow  on  the  sky  of  years. 


Above  thy  cold  and  rocky  breast 

The  tempest  sweeps,  the  night  wind  wails ; 
But  virtue,  peace,  and  love,  like  birds. 

Are  nestling  'mid  thy  hills  and  vales ; 
A  glory  o'er  each  plain  and  glen 
Walks  with  thy  free  and  iron  men. 

And  lights  her  sacred  banner  still, 

With  Bennington  and  Bunker  Hill. 


192 


THE   PITY   OF   THE   PARK   FOUNTAIN. 


Willis, 


WAS  a  summery  day  in  the  last  of  May, 

Pleasant  in  sun  or  shade; 
And  the  hours  went  by,  as  the  poets  say, 
Fragrant  and  fair  on  their  flower)^  way; 
And  a  hearse  crept  slowly  through  Broadway 

And  the  Fountain  gayly  played. 


The  Fountain  played  right  merrily. 
And  the  world  looked  bright  and  gay ; 

And  a  youth  went  by,  with  a  restless  eye. 

Whose  heart  was  sick  and  whose  brain  was  dry ; 

And  he  prayed  to  God  that  he  might  die  — 
And  the  Fountain  })layed  away. 

Uprose  the  spray  like  a  diamond  throne. 

And  the  drops  like  music  rang  — 
And  of  those  wlio  marvelled  how  it  shone 
Was  a  proud  man  left  in  his  shame  alone ; 
And  he  shut  his  teeth  with  a  smothered  groan  — 

And  the  Fountain  sweetly  sang. 


And  a  rainbow  spanned  it  changefuUy, 

Like  a  bright  ring  broke  in  twain ; 
And  the  pale,  fair  girl,  who  stopped  to  see, 
Was  sick  with  the  pangs  of  poverty  — 
And  from  luinger  to  guilt  she  chose  to  flee, 
As  the  rainbow  smiled  again. 


MARCH    OF   THE   REBEL   ANGELS.  193 


With  as  fair  a  ray,  on  another  clay, 

The  mornhig  will  have  shone ; 
And  as  little  marked,  in  bright  Broadway, 
A  hearse  will  glide  amid  busy  and  gay, 
And  the  bard  who  sings  will  have  passed  away  — 

And  the  Fountain  will  play  on! 


Itf^li  @f  tiki  libel  Aifels. 

JdiltoThs  (Paradise  Lost. 

LL  in  a  moment,  through  the  gloom  were  seen 
Ten  thousand  banners  rise  into  the  air. 
With  orient  colors  waving;  with  them  rose 
,  A  forest  of  huge  spears;  and  thronging  helms 
Appeared,  and  serried  shield  in  thick  array 
Of  depth  immeasurable ;  anon  they  move 
In  perfect  phalanx  to  the  Dorian  mood 
Of  flutes  and  soft  recorders,  such  as  raised 
To  height  of  noblest  temper  heroes  old. 
Arming  to  battle,  and  instead  of  rage. 
Deliberate  valor  breathed,  firm  and  unmoved 
With  dread  of  death  to  flight  or  foul  retreat; 
Nor  wanting  power  to  mitigate  and  'suage 
With  solemn  touches  ti-oubled  thoughts,  and  chase 
Anguish,  and  doubt,  and  fear,  and  sorrow,  and  pain, 
From  mortal  or  immortal  minds.     Thus  they, 
Breathing  united  force,  with  fixed  thought. 
Moved  on  in  silence  to  soft  pipes,  that  charmed 


194  THE   SAGAMORE. 


Their  painful  steps  o'er  the  burnt  soil ;  and  now 
Advanced  in  view  they  stand,  a  horrid  front 
Of  dreadful  length  and  dazzling  arms,  in  guise 
Of  vi^arriors  old,  with  ordered  spear  and  shield, 
Awaiting  what  command  their  mighty  chief 
Had  to  impose. 


S-    (P.   BhillabeT-. 


ND  thou,  remembered  Sagamore, 
Some  fairy  pencil  traced  thy  shore, 
With  most  artistic  beauties  rife, 
Ere  sturdy  Nature  gave  it  life; 
Tlie  woods  that  skirt  thy  verdant  side. 
Bow  over  thee  in  love  and  pride, 
And  lay  their  shadows  there  to  rest 
Upon  the  pillow  of  thy  breast ; 
No  sounds  of  harsh  discordance  press 
To  mar  thy  blessed  peacefulness. 
The  old  pines  murmur  whisperingly, 
As  if  in  earnest  praise  of  thee ; 
And  ti'oops  of  brilliant  loving  birds 
Sing  their  delights  in  joyous  words, 
Responsive  to  thine  own  sweet  speech 
That  breaks  in  music  on  thy  beach. 
Among  thy  haunts  again  we've  played. 
Again  along  thy  shore  we've  strayed. 


THE   BEAUTIES   OF   NATURE.  195 

And  bowed  like  liilgriras  at  a  shrine 
Before  thy  beauties  so  divine! 
Again  our  foreheads,  warm  and  glowing. 
Have  felt  thy  crystal  coolness  flowing, 
And  love  has  strengthened  in  the  beam 
Reflected  from  thy  shore  and  stream. 


lis  @f  latir©. 


^iirns. 


-*- 


DMIRING  Nature  in  her  wildest  grace, 

These  northern  scenes  with  weary  feet  I  trace ; 
O'er  many  a  winding  dale  and  painful  steep, 
Th'  abodes  of  coveyed  grouse  and  timid  sheep, 
My  savage  journey,  curious  I  pursue. 
Till  famed  Breadalbane  opens  to  my  view. 
The  meeting  cliffs  each  deep-sunk  glen  divides, 

The  woods,  wild  scattered,  clothe  their  ample  sides. 

Th'  outstretching  lake,  embosomed  'mong  the  hills, 

The  eye  with  wonder  and  amazement  fills ; 

The  Tay  meandering  sweet  in  infant  pride. 

The  palace  rising  on  his  verdant  side; 

The  lawns  wood- fringed  in  Nature's  native  taste; 

The  hillocks  dropped  in  Nature's  careless  haste; 

The  arches  striding  o'er  the  new-born  stream ; 

The  village  glittering  in  the  noontide  beam. 
*  *  *  * 

Poetic  ardors  in  my  bosom  swell. 

Lone  wandering  by  the  hermit's  mossy  cell; 


196 


THE   FAMINE. 


The  sweeping  theatre  of  hanging  woods, 

Th'  incessant  roar  of  headlong  tumbling  floods. 

*  *  *  * 

Here  Poesy  might  wake  her  heaven-taught  lyre, 
And  look  through  Nature  with  creative  fire ; 
Here,  to  the  wrongs  of  fate  half  reconciled, 
Misfortune's  lightened  steps  might  wander  wild ; 
And  Disappointment  in  these  lonely  bounds 
Find  balm  to  soothe  her  bitter,  rankling  wounds. 
Here  heart-struck    Grief  might    heavenward    stretcn 

her  scan. 
And  injured  Worth  forget  and  pardon  man. 


-^ 


Long-fellow's  Hiawatha. 
— i--5'Saa« — • 

y[/pvf   THE  long  and  dreary  Winter! 
(->    ^       O  the  cold  and  cruel  Winter! 
MjM   Ever  thicker,  thicker,  thicker. 
Froze  the  ice  on  lake  and  river ; 
Ever  deeper,  deeper,  deeper. 
Fell  the  snow  o'er  all  the  landscape. 
Fell  the  covering  snow,  and  drifted 
Through  the  forest,  round  the  village. 
Hardly  from  his  buried  wigwam 
Could  the  hunter  force  a  passage; 
With  his  mittens  and  his  snow-shoes 
Vainly  walked  he  through  the  forest, 
Sought  for  bird  or  beast  and  found  none. 


THE   FAMINE.  197 


Saw  no  track  of  deer  or  rabbit, 
In  the  snow  beheld  no  footprints, 
In  the  ghastlj-,  gleaming  forest 
Fell  and  could  not  rise  from  weakness, 
Perished  there  from  cold  and  hunger. 

O  the  famine  and  the  fever ! 
O  the  wasting  of  the  famine! 
O  the  blasting  of  the  fever! 
O  the  wailing  of  the  children ! 

0  the  anguish  of  the  women ! 

All  the  earth  was  sick  and  famished; 
Hungry  was  the  air  around  them. 
Hungry  was  the  sky  above  them. 
And  tile  hungry  stars  in  heaven 
Like  the  eyes  of  wolves  glared  at  them! 

Into  Hiawatha's  wigwam 
Came  two  other  guests,  as  silent 
As  the  ghosts  were,  and  as  gloomy, 
Waited  not  to  be  invited. 
Did  not  parley  at  the  doorway. 
Sat  there  without  word  of  welcome 
In  the  seat  of  Laugliing  Water; 
Looked  with  haggard  eyes  and  hollow 
At  the  face  of  Laughing  Water. 
And  the  foremost  said,  "  Behold  me! 

1  am  Famine,  Bukadawin !  " 
And  the  other  said,  "  Behold  me! 
I  am  Fever,  Ahkosewin !  " 

And  the  lovely  Minnehaha 
Shuddered  as  they  looked  upon  her, 
Shuddered  at  the  words  they  uttered. 


/98  THE  FAMINE. 


Lay  down  on  her  bed  in  silence, 
Hid  her  face,  but  made  no  answer; 
Lay  there  trembling,  freezing,  burning 
At  the  looks  they  cast  upon  her; 
At  the  fearful  words  they  uttered. 

Forth  into  the  empty  forest 
Rushed  the  maddened  Hiawatha; 
In  his  heart  was  deadly  sorrow, 
In  his  face  a  stony  firmness ; 
On  his  brow  the  sweat  of  anguish 
Started,  but  it  froze,  and  fell  not. 

Wrapped  in  furs  and  armed  for  huntings 
With  his  mighty  bow  of  ash-tree, 
With  his  quiver  full  of  aiTows, 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
Into  the  vast  and  vacant  forest 
On  his  snow-shoes  strode  he  forward. 

"  Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty!  " 
Cried  he  with  his  face  uplifted 
In  that  bitter  hour  of  anguish, 
"Give  your  children  food,  O  father! 
Give  us  food,  or  we  must  perish 
Give  me  food  for  IMinnehaha, 
For  my  dying  Minnehaha!  " 

Through  the  far-resounding  foi*est, 
Through  the  forest  vast  and  vacant, 
Rang  thai  cry  of  desolation ; 
But  there  came  no  other  answer 
Than  the  ech^  of  his  crying. 
Than  the  echo  ,A  the  woodlands, 
"  Minnehaha !     i  linnehahal  " 


THE   FAMINE.  ]  99 


All  day  long  roved  Hiawatha 
In  that  melancholy  forest, 
Through  the  shadow  of  whose  thickets. 
In  the  pleasant  days  of  summer, 
Of  that  ne'er  forgotten  summer, 
He  had  brought  his  young  bride  homeward 
From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs ; 
When  the  birds  sang  in  the  thickets, 
And  the  air  was  full  of  fragrance, 
And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 
Said  with  voice  that  did  not  tremble, 
"  I  will  follow  you,  my  husband!  " 

In  the  wigwam  with  Nokomis, 
With  those  gloomy  guests  that  watched  her 
With  tlie  Famine  and  the  Fever, 
She  was  lying,  tlie  Beloved, 
She,  the  dying  Minnehaha. 

*' Hark!  "  she  said ;  "I  hear  a  rushing, 
Hear  a  roaring  and  a  rushing. 
Hear  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  me  from  a  distance !  " 
"  No,  my  child,"  said  old  Nokomis, 
"  'Tis  the  night-wind  in  the  pine  trees!  " 
*'  Look!  "  she  said ;  "  I  see  my  father 
Standing  lonely  at  his  doorway. 
Beckoning  to  me  from  his  wigw:\^ 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs !  " 
" No,  my  child!  "  said  old  Nokomis, 
*"Tis  the  smoke,  that  waves  and  beckons! '' 
"  Ah!  "  she  said,  "  the  eyes  of  Paugak 
Glare  upon  me  in  the  darkness. 


200  THK   FAMINE. 

I  can  feel  his  icy  fingers 
Clasping  mine  amid  the  darliness! 
Hiawatha!     Hiawatha!" 

And  the  desolate  Hiawatha, 
Fai"  away  amid  the  foi'est, 
Miles  away  among  the  mountains, 
Heard  that  sudden  cry  of  anguish, 
Heard  the  voice  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  him  in  the  darkness, 
"  Hiawatlia !     HiaAvatha !  " 

Over  snow-fields  waste  and  patliless. 
Under  snow-encumbered  branches, 
Homeward  hui'ried  Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed,  heavy-hearted. 
Heard  Nokomis  moaning,  wailing; 
"Wahonowin!  Wahonowin! 
Would  that  I  had  perished  for  yc>u! 
Would  that  I  were  dead,  as  you  are! 
Wahonowin !  Wahonowin !  " 

And  he  rushed  into  the  wigwam, 
Saw  the  old  Nokomis  slowly 
Rocking  to  and  fro  and  moaning. 
Saw  his  lovely  Minnehaha 
Lying  dead  and  cold  before  him. 
And  his  bursting  heart  within  him 
Uttered  such  a  cry  of  anguish. 
That  tlie  forest  moaned  and  slumbered. 
That  the  very  stars  in  licaven 
Shook  and  trembled  with  his  anguish. 

Then  he  sat  down,  still  and  speechless. 
On  the  bed  of  Minnehaha, 


THE  FAMINE.  201 


At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water, 
At  those  willing  feet,  that  never 
More  would  iightly  run  to  meet  him; 
Never  more  would  lightly  follow. 

With  both  hands  his  face  he  covered, 
Seven  long  days  and  nights  he  sat  there, 
As  if  in  a  swoon  he  sat  there. 
Speechless,  motionless,  unconscious 
Of  the  daylight  or  the  darkness. 

Then  they  buried  Minnehaha ; 
In  the  snow  a  grave  they  made  her, 
In  the  forest,  deep  and  darksome, 
Undeimeath  the  moaning  hemlocks ; 
Clothed  her  in  her  richest  garments, 
Wrapped  her  in  her  robes  of  ermine,  — 
Covered  her  with  snow,  like  ermine; 
Thus  they  buried  Minnehaha. 

And  at  night  a  fire  was  lighted, 
On  her  grave  four  times  was  kindled, 
For  her  soul  upon  its  journey 
To  the  Island  of  the  Blessed. 
From  his  doorway  Hiawatha 
Saw  it  burning  in  the  forest, 
Lighting  up  the  gloomy  hemlocks; 
From  his  sleepless  bed  uprising. 
From  the  bed  of  Minnehaha, 
Stood  and  watched  it  :it  the  doorway. 
That  it  might  not  be  extinguished. 
Might  not  leave  her  in  the  darkness. 

"Farewell,"  said  he,  "Minnehaha! 
Farewell,  O  my  Laughing  Water! 


202       ,     THE  LADY  OF  THK  EARL. 

All  my  heart  is  buried  with  you, 
All  my  thoughts  go  onward  with  you ; 
Come  not  back  again  to  labor, 
Come  not  back  again  to  suffer, 
Where  the  famine  and  the  fever 
Wear  the  heart  and  waste  the  body. 
Soon  my  task  will  be  completed, 
Soon  your  footsteps  I  shall  follow 
To  the  Island  of  the  Blessed, 
To  the  Kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
To  the  Land  of  the  Hereafter." 


finorh. 


SAW  her  in  the  festive  halls,  in  scenes  of  pride 
and  glee, 

(^JJj^  'Mongst  many  beautiful  and  fair,  but  none  so  fair 
as  she  ; 
Hers  was  the  most  attractive  form  that  mingled 

in  the  scene, 
And  all  who  saw  her  said  she  moved  a  goddess 
and  a  queen. 

The  diamond  blazed  in  her  dark  hair  and  bound  her  pol- 
ished brow. 

And  precious  gems  were  clasped  around  her  swan-like 
neck  of  snow. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  EARL.  203 

And  Indian  looms  had  lent  their  stores  to  form  her 
sumptuous  dress, 

And  art  with  nature  joined  to  greet  her  passing  love- 
liness. 

I  looked  upon  her,  and  I  said,  Who  is  so  blest  as  she  ? 
A  creature  she  all  light  and  life,  all  beauty  and  all  glee  ; 
Sure,  sweet  content  blooms  on  her  cheek  and  on  her 

brow  of  pearl, 
And  she  was  young  and  innocent,  the  lady  of  the  earl. 

But  as  I  looked  more  carefully' I  saw  that  radiant  smile 
Was  but  assumed  in  mockery,  the  unthinking  to  beguile  ; 
Thus    have    I    seen    a    summer    rose    in   all   its   beauty 

bloom, 
When  it  has   shed  its   sweetness  o'er  a  cold  and  lonely 

tomb. 

She  struck  the  harp,  and  when  they  praised  her  skill  she 

turned  aside, 
A  rebel  tear  of  conscious  woe  and  memory  to  hide  ; 
But  when  she  raised  her  head  she  looked  so  lovely,  so 

serene. 
To  gaze  in  her  proud  eyes  you'd  think  a  tear  had  seldom 

been. 

The  humblest  maid  in  rural  life  can  boast  a  happier  fate 
Than  she,  the  beautiful   and  good,  in  all  her  rank  and 

state  ; 
For  she  was  sacrificed,  alas !  to  cold  and  selfish  pride. 
When  her  young  lip  had  breathed  the  vow  to  be  a  sol* 

dier's  bride. 


204  MIGNON   ASPIRING    TO    HEAVEN. 


Of  late  I  viewed  her  move  along,  the  idol  of  the  crowd  ; 
A  few  short  months  elapsed,  and  then  I  kissed  her  in  her 

shroud ; 
And  o'er  her  splendid  monument  I  saw  the  hatchment 

wave, 
But  there  was  one  foud  heart  which  did  more  honor  to 

her  grave. 

A  warrior  dropped  his  plumed  head  upon  her  place  of 

rest. 
And  with  his  feverish  lips  the  name  of  Ephelinda  pressed  ; 
Then  breathed    a  prayer,    and  checked    the  groan,   the 

groan  of  parting  pain. 
And  as  he  left  the  tomb,  he  said,  "  Yet  we  shall  meet 

again." 


«     « 


u|E@a  aspiinaf 


Goethe. 


UCH  let  me  seem  till  such  I  be  ; 

Take  not  my  snow-white  robe  away; 
Soon  from  the  dreary  earth  I  flee, 

Up  to  the  glittering  realms  of  day. 


cr%.    There  first  a  little  space  I  '11  rest, 

Then  ope  my  eyes  with  joyful  mind, 
In  robes  of  lawn  no  longer  dressed, 
Girdle  and  j^arland  left  behind. 


THE   HOPE   OF   AN   HEKEAlTEli.  205 


And  those  calm,  shining  sons  of  morn. 
They  ask  not  touching  maid  or  boy; 

No  robes,  no  garments,  there  are  worn; 
The  frame  is  purged  from  sin's  alloy. 

Through  life,  'tis  true,  I  have  not  toiled; 

Yet  anguish  long  my  heart  has  wrung, 
Untimely  woe  my  cheek  has  spoiled : 

Make  me  again  forever  young. 


i  @f  ai  E^ 


Campbell 


HAT  is  the  bigot's  torch,  the  tyrant's  chain? 
-^I  smile  on  death,  if  heavenward  Hope  remain! 
But,  if  the  warring  winds  of  nature's  strife 
Be  all  the  faithless  charter  of  my  life, 
If  chance  awaked  (inexorable  power!) 
This  frail  and  feverish  being  of  an  hour; 
Doomed  o'er  the  world's  precarious  scene  to  sweep 
Swift  as  the  tempest  travels  on  the  deep, 
To  know  Delight  but  by  her  parting  smile, 
And  toil,  and  wish,  and  weep  a  little  while;  — 
Then  melt,  ye  elements  that  formed  in  vain 
This  troubled  pulse  and  visionary  brain! 
Fade,  ye  wild  flowers,  memorials  of  my  doom! 
And  sink,  ye  stars,  that  light  me  to  the  tomb! 
Eternal  Hope!  when  yonder  spheres  sublime 
Pealed  their  first  notes  to  sound  the  march  of  time, 


206 


ALL   IS   VANITY,   SAITH   THE   PKEACIIEU. 


Thy  joyous  youth  began  —  but  not  to  fade. 
When  all  the  sistei-  planets  have  decayed, 
When  wrapped  in  fire  the  realms  of  ether  glow, 
And  Heaven's  last  thunder  shakes  the  world  beloWs 
Tliou,  undismayed,  shalt  o'er  the  ruins  smile. 
And  light  thy  torch  at  Nature's  funeral  pile! 


—^s^^s^^'m^''^^ 


h  fiLiltjj  salt!};  IM  fmmMr. 

SyTon. 


/^  j-^AAIE,  wisdom,  love,  and  power  Avere  mine, 
*^|l  1;:^     And  health  and  youth  possessed  me; 
^^TmNv  My  goblets  blushed  from  every  vine, 
And  lovely  forms  caressed  me. 


I  sunned  my  heart  in  beauty's  eyes, 
And  felt  my  soul  grow  tender; 

All  earth  can  give,  or  mortal  prize, 
Was  mine  of  regal  splendor. 

I  strive  to  number  o'er  what  days 
Remembrance  can  discover. 

Which  all  that  life  or  earth  displays 
WouM  lure  me  to  live  over. 


There  rose  no  day,  there  rolled  no  hour 

Of  2)leasure  unombittcred; 
And  not  a  trapping  decJced  my  power 

That  galled  not  while  it  glittei-ed. 


ON   A   TEAK.  207 


The  serpent  of  the  field,  by  art 
And  spells,  is  won  from  harming; 

But  that  which  coils  around  the  heart, 
O!  who  hath  power  of  charming? 

It  will  not  list  to  wisdom's  lore, 
Nor  music's  voice  can  lure  it; 

But  there  it  stings  forevermore 
The  soul  that  must  endure  it. 

— MJ®^iS&%<©<M — ■ 


Ilogers. 


THAT  the  chemist's  magic  art 

Could  crystallize  this  sacred  treasure! 
Long  should  it  glitter  near  my  heai*t, 
A  secret  source  of  pensive  pleasure. 

The  little  brilliant,  ere  it  fell. 

Its  lustre  caught  from  Chloe's  eye ; 

Then,  trembling,  left  its  coral  cell  — 
The  spring  of  Sensibility. 

Sweet  drop  of  pure  and  pearly  light! 

In  thee  the  rays  of  virtue  shine,  — 
More  calmly  cleai-,  more  mildly  bright, 

Than  any  gem  that  gilds  the  mine. 

Benign  restorer  of  the  soul ! 
Who  ever  flicst  to  bring  relief, 


i08  THE   LIFE  CLOCK. 


When  first  we  feel  the  rude  control 
Of  love  or  pity,  joy  or  grief. 

The  sage's  and  the  poet's  theme. 
In  evei'y  clime,  in  every  age, 

Thou  charm'st  in  fancy's  idle  dream, 
In  reason's  philosophic  page. 

That  very  law  which  moulds  a  tear, 
And  bids  it  trickle  from  its  source. 

That  law  preserves  the  earth  a  sphere. 
And  guides  the  planets  in  their  course. 

— MJ^-^^EE^^ 


T^non. 


I  HERE  is  a  little  mystic  clock 

No  human  eye  hath  seen. 
That  beateth  on  and  beateth  on 
S^>.       From  morning  until  e'en. 

And  when  the  soul  h  wrapped  in  sleep 
And  heareth  not  a  sound, 
It  ticks  and  ticks  the  livelong  night 
And  never  runneth  down. 

O,  wondrous  is  that  work  of  art 
Which  knells  the  passing  hour; 

But  art  ne'er  formed  or  mind  conceived 
This  life  clock's  magic  power. 


THE  LIFE  CLOCK.  209 


Nor  set  in  gold,  noi*  decked  with  gems, 

B}'  wealth  and  pride  possessed, 
But  rich  or  poor,  or  high  or  low. 

Each  bears  it  in  his  In-east. 

When  life's  deep  stream,  'mid  beds  of  flowers. 

All  still  and  softly  glides, 
Like  the  wavelet's  step,  with  a  gentle  beat, 

It  warns  of  passing  tides. 

When  threatening  darkness  gathers  o''er. 

And  hojie's  bright  visions  flee. 
Like  the  sullen  stroke  of  the  muffled  oar, 

It  beateth  heavily. 

When  passion  nerves  the  warrior's  arm 

For  deeds  of  hate  and  wrong, 
Though  heeded  not  the  fearful  sound, 

Its  knell  is  deep  and  strong. 

When  eyes  to  eyes  are  gazing  soft. 

And  tender  words  are  spoken. 
Then  fast  and  wild  it  rattles  on. 

As  if  with  love  'twere  broken. 

Such  is  the  clock  that  measures  liffe. 

Of  flesh  and  spirit  blended. 
And  thus  'twill  run  within  the  heart 

Till  that  strange  tie  is  ended. 


210  KNOW   THYSELF. 


J/Lvs.   Higowrney 

'4^(\  HEN  gentle  Twilight  sits 
jj  J)     On  Day's  forsaken  throne, 
'Mid  the  sweet  hush  of  eventide 

Muse  by  thyself  alone, 
And  at  the  time  of  rest, 

Ere  sleep  asserts  its  power, 
Hold  pleasant  converse  with  thyself 
In  meditation's  bower. 

Motives  and  deeds  review 

By  Memory's  truthful  glass, 
Thy  silent  self  the  only  judge 

And  critic  as  they  pass; 
And  if  their  wayward  face 

Sliould  give  thy  conscience  pain, 
Resolve  with  energy  divine 

The  victory  to  gain. 

Wlien  moi'ning's  earliest  rays 

O'er  sj^ire  and  roof-tree  fall, 
Gladly  invite  thy  waking  heart 

Unto  a  festival 
Of  smiles  and  love  to  all, 

The  lowliest  and  the  least. 
And  of  deliglited  praise  to  Hin>, 

The  Giver  of  the  feast. 


KNOW   THYSELF.  211 


Not  on  the  outer  world 

For  inward  joy  depend; 
Enjoy  the  luxury  of  thought, 

Make  thine  own  self  thy  friend; 
Not  with  the  restless  throng, 

In  search  of  solace  roam, 
But  with  an  independent  zeal 

Be  intimate  at  home. 

Good  company  have  they 

Who  by  themselves  do  walk 
If  they  have  leai'ned  on  bless6d  themes 

With  their  own  souls  to  talk ; 
For  they  shall  never  feel 

Of  dull  ennui  the  power, 
Not  penury  of  loneliness 

Shall  haunt  their  hall  or  bower. 

Drink  waters  from  tiie  fount 

That  in  thy  bosom  springs, 
And  envy  not  the  mingled  draught 

Of  satraps  or  of  kings ; 
So  shalt  thou  find  at  last. 

Far  from  the  giddy  brain, 
^elf-knowledge  and  self-culture  lead 

To  uncomputed  gain. 


212  O,    NOT  BY   GRAVES. 


W".   if.    WoXlaoi 
— H^Hh— 

NOT  by  graves  should  tears  be  shed; 

Nor  there  should  cypress  weave  its  gloom ; 
No!  —  rrratulations  for  the  dead, 

And  roses  for  the  tomb ! 

Whatever  pangs  they  had  are  o'er; 

Whatever  dark  defects  are  jjast : 
What  care  they  now,  on  that  still  shore. 

For  bleak  misfortune's  blast? 

Rest,  all  ye  pale,  cold  people!     Rest! 

Scorners  alike  of  pain  and  time; 
O,  with  that  still  white-mantled  breast 

How  patient  and  sublime! 

But  for  the  troubled  living —  tears; 

For  them  the  cypress's  sad  shade, 
Who  yet  with  agonies  and  fears 

In  battle  are  arrayed. 

Then  not  by  graves  should  tears  be  shed; 

Nor  there  should  cypress  weave  its  gloom; 
No!  —  gratulations  for  the  dead, 

And  roses  for  the  tomb! 


SOMETHING   CHEAP.  213 


Charles  Swain 


HERE'S  not  a  cheaper  thing  on  earth, 

Nor  yet  one  half  so  dear; 
'Tis  worth  more  than  distinguished  birth, 

Or  thousands  gained  a  year ; 
It  lends  the  day  a  new  delight; 

'Tis  nature's  firmest  shield ; 
And  adds  more  beauty  to  the  night 

Than  all  the  stars  may  yield. 

It  maketh  poverty  content  — 

To-morrow  whispers  peace; 
It  is  a  gift  from  Heaven  sent 

For  mortals  to  increase ; 
It  meets  you  with  a  smile  at  moi*n, 

It  lulls  you  to  repose  — 
A  flower  for  peer  and  peasant  born, 

An  everlasting  rose. 

A  charm  to  banish  grief  away, 

To  snatch  the  frown  from  care ; 
Turn  tears  to  smiles,  make  dulness  gay 

Spread  gladness  every  where ; 
And  yet  'tis  cheap  as  summer  dew, 

That  gems  the  lily's  breast ; 
A  talisman  for  love,  as  true 

As  ever  man  possessed- 


214  SWEET  REMEMBRANCES. 

As  smiles  the  rainbow  through  the  cloud 

When  threatening  storm  begins  — 
As  music  'mid  the  tempest  loud, 

That  still  its  sweet  way  wins  — 
As  springs  an  arch  across  the  tide. 

When  waves  conflicting  form, 
So  comes  this  seraph  to  our  side, 

This  angel  of  our  home. 
What  may  this  wondrous  spirit  be, 

With  power  unheard  before  — 
This  charm,  the  bright  divinity? 

Good  temper  —  nothing  more! 


JJLore. 


NET  Fate  do  her  worst;  there  are  relics  of  joy, 
Bright    dreams    of    the    past,    which    she   cannot 

destroy ; 
And   which    come    in   the   night-time    of    sorrow 

and  care. 
To  l)ring  back  the  features  that  joy  used  to  wear; 
Long,    long    be     my    heart  with    such   memories 
filled ; 
Like  the  vase  in  which  roses  have  once  been  distilled. 
You  may  break,  you  may  ruin  the  vase,  if  you  will, 
But  the  scent  of  the  roses  will  hang  round  it  still. 


CHARITY.  ?15 


Jknon, 


SAW  a  pale  young  orphan  boy 

Go  wandering  sadly  by; 
His  feet  were  bare,  his  garments  torn. 

And  tears  were  in  his  eye. 
He  gazed  on  every  face  that  passed ; 

In  none  was  pity  shown ; 
And  then  upon  the  cold,  damp  ground 

He  sat  and  wept  alone. 

riie  drifting  snow  came  thick  and  fast, 

The  wind  was  high  and  wild ; 
He  found  no  shelter  for  his  head. 

The  poor,  forsaken  child. 
And  all  who  had  come  forth  that  day, 

To  brave  the  cheerless  storm, 
Wrapped  their  warm  garments  closer  round. 

And  passed  unheeding  on. 

^  *  *  * 

Anon  an  angel  form  drew  near, 

With  a  sweet,  pitying  eye. 
And  soon  she  raised  him  from  the  ground, 

And  soon  his  tears  were  dry ; 
She  folded  him  within  ^ler  robe. 

To  shield  him  from  the  storm. 
And  took  him  to  her  cheerful  home, 

To  feed,  and  clothe,  and  warm. 


216  RELIANCE   ON   GOD. 

Yes,  thon  wilt  soothe  the  suffering  one. 

And  bid  his  woes  depart ; 
The  orphan's  pi-ayers  shall  follow  thee, 

Maid  of  the  gentle  heart. 
Faith  leads  us  through  life's  trying  scenes, 

Hope's  smiles  are  sweet  to  see; 
But  lovelier  than  these  art  thou. 

O  soft-eyed  Charity. 

Daughter  of  heaven,  'tis  thine  to  cheer 

The  hearts  that  hopeless  grieve. 
To  follow  in  the  steps  of  want, 

Its  victims  to  relieve. 
Fain  would  we  imitate  thy  love ; 

Fain  would  we  talk  with  thee ; 
Come  thou  and  make  our  hearts  thy  homo, 

O  blessed  Charity. 


Casket 


^tOi" 


^^^  F  thou  hast  ever  folt  that  all  on  earth 
'  Is  transient  and  unstable,  that  tlie  hopes 
Which  man  reposes  on  his  brotlier  man 
Are  but  broken  reeds;  if  thou  hast  seen 
That  l:fe  itself  "  is  but  a  vapor,"  sprung 
From  time's  upheaving  ocean,  decked,  perhaps. 
With  here  and  there  a  rainbow,  but  full  soon 


RELIANCE   ON   GOD.  21'i 


To  be  dissolved  and  mingled  with  the  vast 
And  fathomless  expanse  that  rolls  its  waves 
On  every  side  around  thee;  if  thy  heart 
Has  deeply  felt  all  this,  and  thus  has  learned 
That  earth  has  no  security,  then  go 
And  place  thy  trust  in  God. 

The  bliss  of  earth 
Is  transient  as  the  colored  light  that  beams 
In  morning  dew-drops.     Yet  a  little  while, 
And  all  that  earth  can  show  of  majesty, 
Of  strength,  or  loveliness,  shall  fade  away 
Like  vernal  blossoms.     From  the  conqueror's  hand 
The  sceptre  and  the  sword  shall  pass  away; 
The  mighty  ones  of  earth  shall  lay  them  down 
In  their  low  beds,  and  Death  shall  set  his  seal 
On  Beauty's  marble  brow,  and  cold  and  pale,    ■ 
Bloomless  and  voiceless,  shall  the  lovely  ones 
Go  to  the  "  congregation  of  the  dead." 

Yea,  more  than  this:  the  mighty  rocks  that  lift 

Their  solemn  forms  upon  the  mountain  heights, 

Like  time's  prond  citadels,  to  bear  the  storms 

And  wrecks  of  ages,  —  these,  too,  shall  decay, 

And  Desolation's  icy  hand  shall  wave 

O'er  all  that  thou  canst  see ;  blot  out  the  suns 

That  shed  their  glory  o'er  uncounted  worlds; 

Call  in  the  distant  comets  from  their  wild 

And  devious  course,  and  bid  them  cease  to  move ; 

And  clothe  the  heavens  in  darkness.     But  the  power 

Of  God,  his  goodness,  and  his  grace,  shall  be 


218  THE  GOBLET. 


Unchanged,  when  all  the  worlds  that  he  hath  made 
Have  ceased  their  revolutions.     When  the  suns 
That  burn  in  yonder  sky  have  poured  their  last, 
Their  dying  glory  o'er  the  remains  of  space, 
Still,  God  shall  be  the  same,  the  same  in  love, 
In  majesty,  in  mercy :  then  rely 
In  faith  on  him,  and  thou  shalt  never  find 
Hope  disappointed,  or  reliance  vain. 


"iaj$sc»' 


^ayard  Taylor. 


'(\  HEN  Life  his  lusty  course  began, 
L   D  And  first  I  felt  myself  a  man, 
yily^w/i.    And  Passion's  unforeboded  glow. 

The  thirst  to  feel,  the  will  to  know, 
Gave  courage,  vigor,  fervor,  truth, 
The  glory  of  the  heart  of  youth. 
And  each  awaking  pulse  was  fleet 
A  livelier  march  of  joy  to  beat. 
Presaging  in  its  budding  hour 
The  ripening  of  the  human  flower, 
There  came,  on  some  divine  intent. 
One  whom  the  Lord  of  life  had  sent, 
And  from  his  lips  of  wisdom  fell 
This  ftiir  and  wondrous  oracle : 


THE  GOBLET. 


219 


Life's  arching  temple  holds  for  thee 
Solution  quick,  and  radiant  key 
To  many  an  early  mystery ; 
And  thou  art  eager  to  pursue, 
Through  many  a  dimly-lighted  clew. 
The  hopes  that  turn  thy  l)lood  to  fire, 
The  phantoms  of  thy  young  desire ; 
Yet  not  to  reckless  haste  is  poured 
The  nectar  of  the  generous  lord, 
Nor  mirth  nor  giddy  riot  jar 
The  penetralia,  high  in  air; 
But  steady  hope,  and  passion  pure. 
And  manly  truth,  the  crown  secure. 


Within  that  temple's  secret  heart, 

in  mystic  silence  shrined  apart, 

There  is  a  goblet,  on  whose  brim 

All  raptures  of  creation  swim. 

No  light  that  ever  beamed  in  wine 

Can  match  the  glory  of  its  shine. 

Or  lure  with  such  a  mighty  art 

The  tidal  flow  of  every  heart. 

But  in  its  warm,  bewildering. blaze 

An  ever-shifting  magic  plays. 

And  few  who  round  the  altar  throng 

Shall  find  the  sweets  for  which  they  long. 

Who,  unto  brutish  life  akin, 

Comes  to  the  goblet  dark  with  sin. 

And  with  a  coarse  hand  grasps,  for  him 

The  splendor  of  the  gold  grows  dim ; 

The  gems  are  dirt,  the  liquors  flame 


220  THE   GOBLET. 


A  maddening  beverage  of  shame; 
And  into  caverns  shut  from  day 
The  hot  inebriate  reels  away. 

For  each  shall  give  the  draught  he  drains 
Its  nectar  pure,  or  poison  stains ; 
From  out  his  heart  the  flavor  flows 
That  gives  him  fury  or  repose; 
And  some  will  drink  a  tasteless  wave, 
And  some  inci'ease  the  thirst  they  have; 
And  others  loathe  as  soon  as  taste, 
And  others  pour  the  tide  to  waste ; 
And  some  evoke  from  out  its  deejis 
A  torturing  fiend  that  never  sleeps  — 
For  vain  all  arts  to  exorcise 
From  the  seared  heart  its  haunting  eyes. 

But  he  who  burns  with  pure  desire. 

With  chastened  love  and  sacred  fire. 

With  soul  and  being  all  a-glow 

Life's  holiest  mystery  to  know. 

Shall  see  the  goblet  flash  and  gleam 

As  in  the  glory  of  a  dream; 

And  from  its  starry  lip  shall  drink 

A  bliss  to  lift  liim  on  the  brink 

Of  mighty  rapture,  joy  intense. 

That  far  outlives  its  subsidence. 

The  draught  shall  strike  Life's  narrow  goal, 

And  make  an  outlet  for  his  soul, 

Tliat  down  the  ages,  broad  and  far, 

Shall  brighten  like  a  rising  star. 


THE   FLOWEKS.  221 


In  other  forms  his  pulse  shall  beat, 
His  spirit  walk  in  other  feet, 
And  every  generous  hope  and  aim 
That  spurred  him  on  to  honest  fame. 
To  other  hearts  give  warmth  and  grace, 
And  keep  on  earth  his  honored  place, 
Become  immortal  in  his  race. 


m 


---cS-s^ — 


7©r.^. 


Henry  ^acon. 


S  angels  sport  amid  the  stars, 

And  crown  their  brows  with  light. 
She  played  amid  the  flowei's  of  spring, 
A  creature  of  delight. 

But  when  her  heart  was  leajjing  most 
To  greet  the  summer  bloom, 

The  spectre  of  the  paling  cheek 
Led  to  the  darkened  room. 

But  there,  as  when  the  smiles  of  Christ 
Broke  through  the  veil  of  death, 

The  flowers  were  seen  in  morning  bloom, 
And  balmy  was  the  breath. 

She  gazed  upon  theiu  long  and  still. 
As  though  she  read  the  truth. 


222  THE   FLOWERS. 


That  like  them  she  must  fade  and  die 
Before  the  noon  of  youth. 

Yet  did  they  give  her  holy  thoughts, 

And  she  would  bid  us  smile. 
As  though  the  flower-wreathed  chain  of  hope 

She  sported  with  the  while. 

Still  bloom,  sweet  flowers,  for  her  dear  sake ; 

I  love  ye  all  the  more 
That  she  has  winged  her  mystic  flight 

To  Heaven's  eternal  shore. 

I  love  to  greet  ye  in  my  walks; 

Your  beauty  is  her  own ; 
The  birds  above  ye,  by  the  brooks. 

Sing  with  her  merry  tone. 

And  while  I  breathe  the  fragrant  air, 

And  see  the  stream  run  on, 
I  think  upon  a  holy  soul, 

A  glory  early  gone. 

Still  bloom,  sweet  flowers!  I  love  to  gaze 

On  what  she  loved  so  well ; 
Beyond  the  charm  of  stars  or  skies, 

Ye  have  o'er  me  a  spell. 

And  I  would  feel  that  holy  spell. 

When  on  the  couch  I  lay. 
From  whence  to  greet  thee.  Immortelle  1 

My  spirit  flees  away. 


THE   DAY    IS   DONE.  223 


Longfellow, 


-^v«s*s-— 


HE  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  night, 

As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist. 
And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me, 

That  my  soul  cannot  resist  — 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing. 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  rain. 

Come  read  to  me  some  poem. 
Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay. 

That  sliJ^U  soothe  this  restless  feeling 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters. 
Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 

Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  time;  — 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music. 
Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 

Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavor. 
And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 


224:  THOUGHTS. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 
Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  snmmel 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start;  — 

WJjo  through  long  days  of  labor. 
And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 

Still  heard  in  soul  the  music 
Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 
The  restless  pulse  of  care, 

And  come  like  the  benediction 
That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 

The  poem  of  thy  choice. 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 

The  beauty  of  thy  voice. 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music. 
And  the  cares,  that  infest  the  day, 

Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 

— NC^ — 


Scilejf 


^  E  do  not  make  our  thoughts ;  they  grow  in  us, 
^  Like  grain  in  wood;  the  growth  is  of  the  skies, 
Which  are  of  nature ;  nature  is  of  God. 
The  woi'ld  is  full  of  glorious  likenesses. 


THE   SILENT   MULTITUDE.  225 


J>Irs.  Hemans 
— i^^i<®<&'^r~~- 

MIGHTY  nnd  a  mingled  tlirong 

Were  gathered  in  one  spot ; 
The  dwellers  of  a  thousand  homes  — 

Yet  midst  them  voice  was  not. 

The  soldier  and  his  chief  were  there; 
The  mother  and  her  child ; 
The  friends,  the  sisters  of  one  hearth  — 
None  spoke,  none  moved,  none  smiled. 

There  lovers  met,  between  whose  lives 

Years  had  swept  darkly  by ; 
After  that  heart-sick  hope  deferred, 

They  met,  but  silently. 

You  might  have  hoard  the  rustling  leaf. 

The  breeze's  faintest  sound, 
The  shiver  of  an  insect's  wing, 

On  that  thick- peopled  ground. 

Your  voice  to  whispers  would  have  died. 

For  the  deep  quiet's  sake ; 
Your  tread  the  softest  moss  have  sought. 

Such  stillness  not  to  break. 

What  held  the  countless  multitude 
Bound  in  that  spell  of  peace? 


226  A  VISION. 

How  could  the  ever-sounding  life 
Amid  so  many  cease? 

Was  it  some  pageant  of  the  air, 

Some  glory  high  above, 
That  linked  and  hushed  those  human  souls 

In  reverential  love  ? 

Or  did  some  burdening  passion's  weight 
Hang  on  their  indrawn  breath? 

Awe  —  the  pale  awe  that  freezes  words? 
Fear  —  the  strong  fear  of  death? 

A  mightier  thing  —  Death,  death  himself 

Lay  on  each  lonely  heart! 
Kindred  were  there,  yet  hermits  all ; 

Thousands,  but  each  apart. 


ji.  M-  -S 


t  STAND  on  the  brink  of  a  river, 
'     The  River  of  Life  to  me, 
Wliere  the  billows  of  memory  quivei*, 
And  rise  and  fall  like  the  sea. 

I  read  in  their  tremulous  motion 

The  records  of  many  a  year, 
And  like  voices  tliat  come  from  the  ocean 

Are  the  muffled  words  I  hear. 


A  VISION.  227 

Down  under  the  waters  gleaming, 

Are  visions  of  long  ago; 
There  are  for"iis  of  beauty  beaming. 

There  are  shadows  dark  and  low. 

There  are  scenes  from  life's  fair  morning. 

That  come  like  the  break  of  day. 
Or  a  beautiful  landscape's  dawning. 

When  the  mists  have  cleared  away. 

I  gaze  on  the  jight  Elysian, 

With  earnest  and  longing  eyes. 
Till  my  soul  is  stirred,  by  the  vision, 

With  raptures  from  Paradise, 

I  see  the  chain  of  a  friendship 

Death  never  had  power  to  part; 
One  link  is  under  the  waters. 

The  other  is  round  my  heart. 

I  hear,  from  the  depths  of  the  river. 

Sweet  words  that  my  spirit  thrill; 
We  are  parted,  but  not  forever; 

We  are  living  and  loving  still ! 

And  my  soul  no  more  is  lonely. 

Nor  throbs  with  a  sense  of  pain, 
For  the  loved,  who  were  once  mine  onl^f, 

I  know  will  be  mine  again. 

Dark  waves  may  close  o'er  the  vision, 
Storms  drive  me  away  from  the  shore; 


228 


LOST. 


But  hope,  like  the  lamp  of  a  Vestal, 
Dies  out  in  my  soul  no  more. 

Flow  on,  mysterious  river. 
Flow  on  to  eternity's  sea ; 

By  faith  and  a  holy  endeavoi', 
The  future  hath  bliss  for  me. 


--c^=«<^^«:!^^^^> — 


hXi" 


JkrhOTh, 


HERE  are  gains  for  all  oiu-  losses, 
There  are  balms  for  all  our  pain; 
But  when  youth,  the  dream,  departs. 
It  takes  something  from  our  hearts, 
And  it  never  comes  again. 

We  are  stronger,  and  are  better. 

Under  manhood's  sterner  reign; 
Still  we  feel  that  something  sweet 
Followed  youth  with  Ih'ing  feet, 
And  will  never  come  asrain. 


Something  beautiful  is  vanished. 

And  we  sigh  for  it  in  vain ; 
We  behold  it  eveiy  where, 
On  the  earth  and  in  the  air. 
But  it  never  comes  ag-ain. 


THE   PICKET   BEFORE   BULL   KUN.  229 

Before  BmU  Htoi» 

A  LIFE  SKETCH. 

John   Willicbin  (X>ay 


Y  gun  shines  in  the  misty  air, 

The  fog  in  the  vale  hangs  chill  and  cold, 
The  gloaming  tree  o'er  our  thicket  lair 

Heaves  up  like  a  standard's  fold ; 
'Tis  near  the  beat  of  the  early  drum. 

For  light  pales  up  to  each  fading  star: 
I  watch  till  the  crimson  morning  come 

O'er  the  eastern  hills  afar. 


My  mate  sleeps  on,  as  a  weary  child. 

In  tranquil  rest  at  a  mother's  knee. 
When  the  hymn  floats  off  in  twilight  mild, 

And  the  shades  of  danger  flee. 
For  him  the  prayers  of  a  household  band 

This  night  o'er  the  cloudy  stair  have  striven,, 
Where  the  great  archangels  flaming  stand. 

At  the  golden  doors  of  Heaven. 

'Tis  still ;  my  heai-t,  in  the  early  morn. 

Yearns  fondly  back  to  the  closing  past; 
The  joys  of  youth,  in  their  glory  boi'n, 

As  pearls  fi-om  the  genii  cast; 
The  love  that  bui-ned  as  a  vestal  fire. 

Though  lit  on  a  shrine  of  crumbling  mould - 
The  chant  of  fame  in  a  far-ofi"  choir. 

That  down  through  the  years  hath  rolled. 


230  THE  PICKET   BEFORE   BULL  RUN. 

A  stealthy  tread  in  yon  thicket's  brow  — 

'Tis  the  foeman  stirs  eacli  weary  limb; 
Perchance  his  thought  is  a  pilgrim  now; 

Thrmigh  the  gates  of  memory  dim. 
He  hears  the  plash  of  Edisto's  wave, 

He  sees  the  star  of  the  morning  shine 
On  Yarvo's  breast,  or  evening  lave 

In  the  tide  of  swift  Saline. 

*  *  *  * 

A  shot!  aha!  'tis  their  parting  word; 

A  smothered  groan  at  ray  side  I  hear. 
0,  down  the  hill,  like  a  prairie  lierd, 

They  burst,  with  a  rolling  cheer; 
And  our  captain  points  with  waving  blade, 

"  Fall  back,  boys!  back  to  your  farm-house  wall^ 
On,  on  tlirough  the  woodland's  tangled  shade ! " 

Up,  boy ;  'tis  our  bugle  call. 

In  vain!  it  calls  to  thine  ear  in  vain. 

For  night  must  fall  on  thy  closing  race, 
The  mourner  bend  in  the  holy  fane 

For  a  martyred  Saviour's  grace. 
The  blanket's  wet  with  th}^  briglitening  blood. 

The  spirit's  gone  from  thy  half-closed  eye; 
The  Jordan  rolls  in  a  stormy  flood. 

Where  thy  conquering  pinions  fly. 

*  *  *  * 

He  rests  in  peace  'neath  tlie  old  oak  shade  — 
We  wavered  back  from  the  charging  foe — ^ 

And  the  rebel  turf  on  his  brow  is  laid, 
Their  winds  o'er  the  slumberer  go ; 


THE  SONG   OF   SEVENTY.  231 


He  sleeps,  while  the  bells  of  autumn  toll, 
Or  the  murmuring  song  of  spring  flits  by, 

Till  the  crackling  heavens  in  thunder  roll 
To  the  bugle  blast  on  high. 


Supper, 


AM  not  —  I  cannot  be  old, 
Though  threescore  years  and  ten 

Have  vvasted  away,  like  a  tale  that  is  told, 
The  lives  of  other  men. 

I  am  not  old ;  though  friends  and  foes 
Alike  have  gone  to  their  graves. 

And  left  me  alone  to  my  joys  or  my  woes. 
As  a  rock  in  the  midst  of  the  waves. 


I  am  not  old  —  I  cannot  be  old. 

Though  totterring,  wrinkled,  and  gray; 

Though  ray  eyes  are  dim,  and  my  mari'ow  is  col(J 
Call  me  not  old  to-day. 

For  early  memories  round  me  throng,  — 
Old  times,  and  manners,  and  men,  — 

As  I  look  behind  on  my  journey  so  long. 
Of  threescore  miles  and  ten. 

I  look  behind,  and  am  once  more  young. 
Buoyant,  and  brave,  and  bold. 


232  THE  SONG  OF  SEVENTY. 

And  my  heart  can  sing,  as  of  yore  it  sung, 
Before  they  called  me  old. 

I  do  not  see  her  —  the  old  wife  there  — 
Shrivelled,  and  haggard,  and  gray, 

But  I  look  on  her  blooming,  and  soft,  and  fair 
As  she  was  on  her  wedding-day ! 

I  do  not  see  you,  daughters  and  sons, 
In  the  likeness  of  women  and  men, 

But  I  kiss  you  now  as  I  kissed  you  once, 
My  fond  little  children  then ! 

And  as  my  grandson  rides  on  my  knee, 

Or  plays  with  his  hoop  or  kite, 
I  can  well  recollect  I  was  merry  as  he  — 

The  bright-eyed  little  wight! 

'Tis  not  long  since  —  it  cannot  be  long, 

My  yeai's  so  soon  were  spent  — 
Since  I  was  a  boy,  both  straight  and  strong; 

Yet  now  am  I  feeble  and  bent. 

A  dream,  a  dream  —  it  is  all  a  dream ; 

A  strange,  sad  dream,  good  sooth; 
For  old  as  I  am,  and  old  as  I  seem. 

My  heart  is  full  of  youth. 

Eye  hath  not  seen,  tongue  hath  not  told. 

And  ear  hath  not  heard  it  sung, 
IIow  buoyant  and  bold,  though  it  seem  to  gi'ow  old. 

Is  the  heart  forever  young. 


GOOD  AND  BETTER.  233 


Forever  young,  —  though  life's  old  age 
Hath  every  nerve  unstrung ; 

The  heart,  the  heart  is  a  heritage 
That  keeps  the  old  man  young. 


— -c:^=s^eJ§f^^=Sv^ 


firMTh. 


— ^«<&9S-^ — 


FATHER  sat  by  the  chimney-post. 
On  a  winter's  day,  enjoying  a  I'oast, 
By  his  side  a  maiden  young  and  fiiir, 
A  girl  with  a  wealth  of  golden  hair; 
And  she  teases  the  father,  stern  and  cold, 
With  a  question  of  duty  trite  and  old : 
"  Say,  father,  what  shall  a  maiden  do 
When  a  man  of  merit  comes  to  woo? 
And,  father,  what  of  this  pain  in  my  breast? 
Married  or  single  —  which  is  the  best?  " 

Then  the  sire  of  the  maiden  young  and  fair, 
The  girl  of  the  wealth  of  golden  hair, 
He  answers  as  ever  do  fathers  cold, 
To  the  question  of  duty  trite  and  old : 
"She  who  weddeth  keeps  God's  letter; 
She  who  weds  not,  doeth  better." 
Then  meekly  answered  the  maiden  fair. 
The  girl  with  the  wealth  of  golden  hair, 
"I  will  keep  the  sense  of  the  Holy  Le  ^er, 
Content  to  do  well,  Avithout  doing  be'/ter." 


234 


BUILDING   UPON   THE  SAND. 


- -e^CSKta-rr-- 


Eliza   Cook. 


IS  well  to  woo,  'tis  well  to  wed, 
For  so  the  world  has  done 

Since  myrtles  grew  and  roses  blew 
And  morning  brought  the  sun. 

But  have  a  care,  ye  young  and  fair; 

Be  sure  ye  pledge  with  truth ; 
Be  certain  that  your  love  will  wear 

Beyond  the  days  of  youth. 


For  if  ye  give  not  heart  to  heart. 

As  well  as  hand  for  hand, 
You'll  find  you've  played  the  "  unwise  part,*' 

And  "  built  upon  the  sand." 

'Tis  well  to  save,  'tis  well  to  have 

A  goodly  store  of  gold. 
And  hold  enough  of  sterling  stuff, 

For  charity  is  cold. 

But  ijlace  not  all  your  hopes  and  trust 

In  what  the  deep  mine  brings ; 
We  cannot  live  on  yellow  dust, 

Unmixed  with  purer  things. 


And  he  who  piles  up  wealth  alone 
Will  often  have  to  stand 


REMEMBRANCE.  235 


Behind  his  coffer-cliest,  and  own 
'Tis  "built  upon  the  sand." 

'Tis  good  to  speak  in  kindly  guise. 
And  sootiie  whate'er  we  can ; 

For  speech  should  bind  the  human  mind, 
And  love  link  man  to  man. 

But  stay  not  at  the  gentle  words ; 

Let  deeds  with  language  dwell ; 
The  one  who  pities  starving  birds 

Should  scatter  crumbs  as  well. 

The  mercy  that  is  warm  and  true 

Must  lend  a  helping  hand ; 
For  those  who  talk,  yet  fail  to  do, 

But  "  build  upon  the  sand." 


(Percival. 


HERE  are  moments  in  life  that  are  never  forgot, 
Which  brighten,   and  brighten,   as   time  steals 
away ; 

They  give  a  new  charm  to  the  happiest  lot, 

And  they  shine  on  the  gloom  of  the  loneliest  day. 

These  moments  are  hallowed  by  smiles  and  by  tears, 
The  first  look  of  love  and  the  last  parting  given. 


236  DEDICATION    OF    A    SCHOOL    HOUSE. 


J^iss  Louisa,  8imes, 

M  E  call  it  hallowed  ground, 
I  D     Where  first  the  Pilgrims  trod, 
vh1>^^  And  swept  the  waves  of  grateful  prayer 
"    --^—        Across  a  virgin  sod. 
Not  to  a  life  of  ease, 

Not  for  the  meed  of  fame. 

But  for  a  loftier  range  of  mind, 

Across  the  deep  they  came. 

'Mid  forests  unsubdued 

The  Sabbath  dome  rose  fair ; 
And  in  their  rude,  unsheltered  homes 

We  heard  the  call  —  To  prayer. 
The  wealth  of  thought  they  knew, 

And  with  a  toil-blest  hand, 
The  path  of  learning,  broad  and  free, 

Sped  through  our  favored  land. 

True  to  that  sacred  past. 

So  brief,  and  yet  so  great, 
To  whomsoever  will,  these  walls 

Be  henceforth  consecrate. 
Not  fortune's  favored  child, 

But  on  the  immortal,  all. 
The  sunshine  of  this  sphere  of  light 

In  constant  blessings  fall. 


THE    ANGELS    IN"    THE    HOUSE.  237 

No  forests  frown  before  ; 

Behind,  no  dark  seas  roll ; 
Young  pilgrims  of  a  brighter  day 

Press  to  a  higher  goal, 
Glean  from  the  world's  vast  field 

Of  Science  and  of  Art, 
But  truth  and  purity,  keep^white 

For  harvest  of  the  heart. 

Thou,  Father,  unto  whom 

The  dew  of  youth  is  fair, 
Deepen  thine  impress  on  the  souls 

Of  our  great  Teacher's  care. 
The  wide  arena,  Life, 

Beams  clear  in  Duty's  ray. 
And  hallowed  footsteps  make  one  path 

Up  to  unshadowed  day. 


^non. 


HREE  pairs  of  dimpled  arms,  as  white  as  snow 

Held  me  in  soft  embrace  ; 
Three  little  cheeks,  like  velvet  peaches  soft, 

Were  placed  against  my  face. 


Three  pairs  of  tiny  eyes,  so  clear,  so  deep, 
Looked  up  in  mine  this  even  ; 
Three  pairs  of  lips  kissed  me  a  sweet  "  Good  night," 
Three  little  forms  from  Heaven. 


238 


THE  PROVINCE  OF  WOMAN. 


Ah,  it  is  well  that  "little  ones"  should  love  us; 

It  lights  our  faith  when  dim, 
To  know  that  once  our  blessed  Saviour  bade  them 

Bring  "  little  ones  "  to  him. 

And   said  he  not,    "Of  such  is   Heaven,"  and  blesseif 
them,     » 

And  held  them  to  his  breast? 
Is  it  not  sweet  to  know  that,  when  they  leave  us, 

'Tis  then  they  go  to  rest? 

And  yet,  ye  tiny  angels  of  my  house. 

Three  hearts  encased  in  mine. 
How  'twould  be  shattered  if  the  Lord  should  say, 

"Those  angels  are  not  thine!  " 


Hannah  J\iore 


S  some  fair  violet,  loveliest  of  the  glade, 
Sheds  its  mild  fragrance  on  the  lonely  shade, 
Witlidraws  its  modest  liead  from  public  sight, 
Nor  courts  the  sun,  nor  seeks  the  glare  of  light. 
Should  some  rude  hand  profanely  dare  intrude, 
And  bear  its  beauties  from  its  native  wood, 
Exposed  abroad,  its  languid  colors  fly. 
Its  form  decays,  and  all  its  odors  die ; 
So  woman,  born  to  dignify  retreat. 
Unknown  to  flourish,  and  unseen  be  great; 


woman's  four  seasons.  239 


To  give  domestic  life  its  sweetest  charm, 
With  softness  polish,  and  with  virtue  warm; 
Fearful  of  fame,  unwilling  to  be  known, 
Should  seek  but  Heaven's  applauses  and  her  own. 


^ailey 


UR  life  is  comely  as  a  whole;  nay,  more, 
Like  rich  brown  ringlets,  with  odd  hairs  all  gold 
We  women  have  four  seasons,  like  the  year; 
Our  spring  is  in  our  lightsome,  girlish  days, 
When  the  heart  laughs  within  us  for  sheer  joy. 
Ere  yet  we  know  what  love  is,  or  the  ill 
Of  being  loved  by  those  whom  we  love  not. 
Our  summer  is  when  we  love  and  are  beloved. 
And  seems  short ;  from  its  very  splendor  seems 
To  pass  the  quickest ;  crowned  with  flowers  it  flies. 
Autumn,  when  some  young  thing  with  tiny  hands. 
And  rosy  cheeks,  and  flossy-tendrilled  locks, 
Is  wantoning  about  us  day  and  night. 
And  winter  is  when  those  we  love  have  perished; 
For  the  heart  ices  them.     And  the  next  spring 
Is  in  another  world,  if  one  thei'e  be. 
Some  miss  one  season,  some  another;  this 
Shall  have  them  early,  and  that  late ;  and  yet 
The  year  wears  round  with  all  as  best  it  may; 
There  is  no  rule  for  it;  but  in  the  man 
It  is  as  I  have  said. 


240  MAUD   MULLER. 


Whittier. 

^'^'^  AUD  MULLER,  on  a  summer's  day, 
^  Raked  the  meadows  sweet  with  hay. 
^   Beneatli  her  torn  hat  glowed  the  wealth 
Of  simjile  beautj'  and  rustic  liealth. 

Sino'ino;',  slie  wrought,  and  her  merry  glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  liis  tree. 

But  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off  town, 
White  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down, 

The  sweet  song  died  and  a  vague  unrest 
And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her  breast  — 

A  wish,  that  she  had  hardly  dared  to  own. 
For  something  better  than  she  had  known. 

The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane. 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 

Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid. 

And  ask  a  draught  from  the  spring  that  flowed 
Through  the  meadow  across  the  road. 

She  stooped  where  the  cool  spring  bubbled  up, 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup. 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tattered  gown. 


MAUD   MULLER.  241 


Then  said  the  Judge,  "  A  sweeter  draught 
From  a  fairer  hand  was  never  quaffed." 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers  and  trees, 
Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  humming  bees ; 

Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  wondered  whether 
The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring  foul  weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown, 
And  her  graceful  ankles,  bare  and  brown, 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel  eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

Maud  Muller  looked,  and  sighed :  "  Ah  me! 
"  That  I  the  Judge's  bride  might  be! 

"  He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine, 
And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  Avine. 

"My  father  should  wear  a  broadcloth  coat; 
My  brother  should  sail  a  painted  boat ; 

"  I'd  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay. 

And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy  each  day, 

"  And  I'd  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the  poor. 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our  door." 

The  Judge  looked  back  as  he  climbed  the  hill, 
And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still. 

"  A  form  more  fair,  a  face  more  sweet, 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet; 


242  MAUD   MULI-ER. 

"  And  her  modest  and  graceful  air 
Shows  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 

"  Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day, 
Like  her,  a  harvester  of  hay ; 

"No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and  wrongs, 
Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues, 

"  But  low  of  cattle  and  song  of  birds. 
And  health  and  quiet  and  loving  words." 

But  he  thought  of  his  sisters,  proud  and  cold. 
And  his  mother,  vain  of  her  rank  and  gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode  on, 
And  Maud  was  left  iu  the  field  alone. 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon, 
When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old  love-tune; 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the  well, 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 

He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower. 
Who  lived  for  fashion,  as  he  for  power. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth's  bright  glow, 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go : 

And  sweet  Maud  Mullei-'s  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

Oft  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was  red. 
He  longed  for  the  wayside  rill  instead, 

And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished  rooms, 
To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover-blooms. 


MAUD   MULLEK.  243 


And  the  proud  man  sighed  with  a  secret  jDain, 
"  Ah,  tliat  I  was  free  again! 

"  Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day 

Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  her  hay." 

She  wedded  a  man  unlearned  and  poor, 
And  many  children  played  I'ound  her  door; 

But  care  and  sorrow  and  childbirth  pain 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone  hot 
On  tlie  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow  lot, 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring-bi'ook  fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall. 

In  the  shade  of  the  apjjle-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein. 

And,  gazing  down  with  tender  grace, 
She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face. 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  Avails 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls ; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinet  turned, 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned. 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney  log. 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and  mug, 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw. 
And  joy  was  duty,  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again, 
Saying  only,  "It  might  have  been." 


244  HOW    TO    LIVK. 


Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  Judge, 

For  rich  refiner  and  household  drudge  ! 

Grod  pity  them  both !  and  pity  us  all. 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall. 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 

The  saddest  are  these :  "  It  might  have  been  ! 

Ah,  well !  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes  ; 

And  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away. 


^ryant. 


O  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  that  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death. 
Thou  go,  not  like  the  quarry  slave  at  night 
Scourged   to    his    dungeon,    but   sustained    and 

soothed 

By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


ADVERTISEMENT   OF   A   LOST   DAY.  245 

J/Lts.    Bigoxvmey 


OST!  lost'  lost! 

A  gem  of  countless  price, 
Cut  from  the  living  rock, 

And  graved  in  Paradise. 
Set  round  with  three  times  eight 

Large  diamonds,  clear  and  bright, 
And  each  with  sixty  smaller  ones. 

All  changeful  as  the  light. 

Lost  —  where  the  thoughtless  throng 

In  fashion's  mazes  wind, 
Where  trilleth  folly's  song. 

Leaving  a  sting  behind ; 
Yet  to  my  hand  'twas  given 

A  golden  harp  to  buy, 
Such  as  the  white-robed  choir  attune 

To  deathless  minstrelsy. 

Lost!  lost!  lost! 

I  feel  all  search  is  vain ; 
That  gem  of  countless  cost 

Can  ne'er  be  mine  again. 
1  ofier  no  reward, 

For  till  these  heart-strings  sever, 
I  know  that  Heaven-intrusted  gift 

I3  reft  jiway  forever. 


246 


THE   WRECK. 


But  when  the  sea  and  land 

Like  burning  scroll  have  fled, 
I'll  see  it  in  His  hand 

Who  judgeth  quick  and  dead; 
And  when  of  scath  and  loss 

That  man  can  ne'er  repair, 
The  dread  inquiry  meets  my  soul, 

What  shall  it  answer  there? 


-*^-H 


J\irs.   Hemans. 


-— K^^^t^*'^^ 


LL  night  the  booming  minute  gun 

Had  pealed  along  the  deep, 
And  mournfully  the  rising  sun 

Looked  o'er  the  tide-worn  steep. 
A  bark  from  India's  coral  strand, 

Before  the  raging  blast, 
Had  vailed  her  topsails  to  the  sand, 

And  bowed  her  noble  mast. 


The  queenly  ship!  brave  hearts  had  striven, 

And  true  ones  died  with  her! 
We  saw  her  mighty  cable  riven 

Like  floating  gossamer. 
We  saw  her  pi'oud  flag  struck  that  morn, 

A  star  once  o'er  the  seas  — 
Her  anchor  gone,  her  deck  uptorn  — 

And  sadder  things  than  these ! 


THE  WRECK.  247 


We  saw  her  treasures  cast  away ; 

The  rocks  with  pearls  were  sown, 
And,  strangely  sad,  the  ruby's  ray 

Flashed  out  o'er  fretted  stone. 
And  gold  was  strewn  tlie  wet  sand  o'er, 

Like  ashes  by  a  breeze ; 
And  gorgeous  robes  —  but  O,  that  shore 

Had  sadder  things  than  these. 

We  saw  the  strong  man  still  and  low, 

A  crushed  reed  thrown  aside ; 
Yet,  by  that  rigid  lip  and  brow. 

Not  without  strife  he  died. 
And  near  him  on  the  sea- weed  lay  — 

Till  then  we  had  not  wept  — 
But  well  our  gushing  hearts  might  say 

That  there  a  mother  slept. 

For  her  pale  arms  a  babe  had  pressed 

With  such  a  wreathing  grasp. 
Billows  had  dashed  o'er  that  fond  breast. 

Yet  not  undone  the  clasp ; 
Her  very  tresses  had  been  flung 

To  wrap  the  fair  child's  form. 
Where  still  their  wet,  long  streamers  hung, 

All  tangled  by  the  storm. 

And  beautiful,  'midst  that  wild  scene. 
Gleamed  up  the  boy's  dead  face, 

Like  slumber's,  trustingly  serene, 
In  melancholy  grace. 


248 


THE    RETREAT    FROM    MOSCOAV, 


Deep  in  her  bosom  lay  his  head. 

With  lialf-shut,  violet  eye  ; 
He  had  known  little  of  her  dread, 

Nought  of  her  agony. 

O  human  love,  whose  yearning  heart, 

Through  all  things  vainly  true, 
So  stamps  upon  the  mortal  part 

Its  passionate  adieu, 
Surely  thou  hast  another  lot  — 

There  is  some  home  for  thee, 
Where  thou  shalt  rest,  remembering  not 

The  moaning  of  the  sea. 


immw. 


jbyofL 


--<r  e^iTKa-rj-^ 


I  HEN  came  the  mad  retreat;  the  whirlwind  snowa 
^(p  Sweeping  around  them  merciless  as  man  ; 

The  stiffening  hand,  the  pulseless  heart  and  eye, 
\^^^    The  frozen  standard  and  the  palsied  arm  ; 

The  unfrequent  watch-fires  rising  like  red  sparks 
Amidst  the  illimitable  snows  ;  the  crowds 
Of  spectral  myriads  shuddering  around  them, 
Frozen  to  statues  ;   scathed  by  the  red  flames 
Or  speared  by  howling  savages  ;  until 
Winter,  less  merciless  than  they,  threw  o'er  them 
Her  winding  sheet  of  snows,  deep  burying 
Armies  whose  presence  vanished  like  a  dream. 


MAN    WAS  MADE  TO  MOURN.  249 


laE  was  Made  t@  mqwm, 


§ums. 


fi  HEN  chill  Novemljer's  surly  blast 
^     Made  fields  and  forests  bare, 
One  evening,  as  I  wandered  forth 

Along  the  banks  of  Ayr, 
I  spied  a  man,  whose  aged  step 

Seemed  weary,  worn  with  care; 
His  face  was  furrowed  o'er  with  years. 
And  hoary  was  his  hair. 


"  Young  stranger,  whither  wanderest  thou?" 

Began  the  reverend  sage ; 
"  Does  thirst  of  wealth  thy  steps  constrain, 

Or  youthful  pleasure's  rage ; 
Or  haply,  pressed  with  cares  and  woes. 

Too  soon  thou  hast  begun 
To  wander  forth  with  me  to  mourn 

The  miseries  of  man. 

"  The  sun  that  overhangs  yon  moors. 

Out-spreading  flxr  and  wide, 
Where  hundreds  labor  to  support 

A  haughty  lordling's  pride  — 
I've  seen  yon  weary  winter's  sun 

Twice  forty  times  return ; 
And  every  time  has  added  proofs 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 


250  MAN  WAS  MADE  TO  MOURN. 

"  O  man!  while  in  thy  early  years 

How  prodigal  of  time ! 
Misspending  all  thy  precious  hours, 

Thy  glorious  youthful  prime ; 
Alternate  follies  take  the  sway. 

Licentious  passions  burn ; 
Which  tenfold  force  gives  nature's  law. 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 


"  Look  not  alone  on  youthful  prime. 

Or  manhood's  active  might ; 
Man  then  is  useful  to  his  kind, 

Sujjported  in  his  right ; 
But  see  him  on  the  edge  of  life, 

With  cares  and  sorrows  worn; 
Then  age  and  want  —  O,  ill-matched  parts 

Show  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

"  A  few  seem  favorites  of  fate, 

In  Pleasure's  lap  carest ; 
Yet  think  not  all  the  rich  and  gi'eat 

Are  likewise  truly  blest. 
But  O,  what  crowds  in  every  land 

Are  wretched  and  forlorn ! 
Through  weary  life  this  lesson  learn, 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

"  Many  and  sharp  the  numerous  ills 

Inwoven  with  our  frame! 
More  pointed  still  we  make  ourselves. 

Regret,  remorse,  and  shame! 


MAN   WAS   MADE  TO   MOUKN.  251 


And  man,  whose  heaven-erected  face 

The  smiles  of  love  adorn, 
Man's  inhumanity  to  man 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn. 

"  See  yonder  poor,  o'erlabored  wight, 

So  abject,  mean,  and  vile. 
Who  begs  a  brother  of  the  earth 

To  give  him  leave  to  toil; 
And  see  his  lordly  fellow-worm 

The  poor  petition  spurn. 
Unmindful,  though  a  weeping  wife 

And  helpless  offspring  mourn. 

"K  I'm  designed  yon  lordling's  slave,- 

By  nature's  law  designed,  — 
Why  was  an  independent  wish 

E'er  planted  in  my  mind? 
If  not,  why  am  I  subject  to 

His  cruelty  or  scorn? 
Or  why  has  man  the  will  and  power 

To  make  his  fellow  mourn? 

"  Yet,  let  not  this  too  much,  my  son, 

Disturb  thy  youthful  breast; 
This  partial  view  of  human  kind 

Is  surely  not  the  best! 
The  poor,  oppressed,  honest  man 

Had  never,  sure,  been  born. 
Had  there  not  been  some  recompense 

To  comfort  those  that  mourn! 


252  UNSEEN  SPIRITS. 


"  O  death,  the  poor  man's  dearest  friend. 

The  kindest  and  the  best! 
Welcome  the  hour  my  aged  limbs 

Are  laid  with  thee  at  rest! 
The  great,  the  wealthy,  fear  thy  blow. 

From  pomp  and  pleasures  torn ; 
But  O,  a  blest  relief  to  those 

That  weary-laden  mourn! " 

— NC=^^££E<%^ — - 


muis. 


HE  shadows  lay  along  Broadway,  — 
'Twas  near  the  twilight  tide,  — 

And  slowly  there  a  lady  fair 
Was  walking  in  her  pride ; 

Alone  walked  she ;  but,  viewlessly, 
Walked  spirits  at  her  side. 

Peace  charmed  the  street  beneath  her  feet, 

And  honor  charmed  the  air; 
And  all  astir  looked  kind  on  lier, 

And  called  her  good  and  fair; 
For  all  God  ever  gave  to  her 

She  kept  with  chary  care. 

She  kept  with  care  lier  beauties  rare 

From  lovers  warm  and  true. 
For  her  heart  was  cold  to  all  but  srold 


THE  TKUE   MEASURE   OF   LIFE.  253 


And  the  rich  cjime  not  to  woo : 
But  honored  well  are  charms  to  sell. 
If  priests  the  selling  do. 

Now  walking  there  was  one  more  fair,  — 

A  slight  girl,  lily  pale; 
And  she  had  unseen  company 

To  make  the  spirit  quail : 
'Twixt  Want  and  Scorn  she  walked  forlorn. 

And  nothing  could  avail. 

No  mercy  now  can  clear  her  brow 

For  this  world's  peace  to  pray ; 
For,  as  love's  wild  prayer  dissolved  in  air. 

Her  woman's  heart  gave  way ; 
But  the  sin  forgiven  by  Christ  in  heaven. 

By  man  is  cursed  alway. 

Tie  trae  M@tsOT@  @f  Mfe. 

<P.  J.   galley. 

J'^  E   live   in   deeds,   not  years;    in   thoughts,   not 
^  breath ; 

A  In  feelings,  not  in  figures  on  the  dial. 

We    should   count   time    by  heart-throbs   when 
•^-^^  they  beat 

For  God,  for  man,  for  duty.     He  most  lives, 
Who  thinks  most,  feels  noblest,  acts  the  best. 
Life  is  but  a  means  unto  an  end  —  that  end, 
••inning,  mean,  and  end  to  all  things,  God. 


254  FLOWERS. 


Thomas  <P.  J^oses 


IS  early  dawn  —  and  all  around 
f      Bright  dewy  flowers  I  view. 

Uprising  from  the  fertile  ground, 
f-^     Of  every  form  and  hue. 

Tlie  waving  trees  in  sill^en  sheen 

Unfold  their  blossoms  gay ; 
And  on  each  festooned  bough  are  seen 
Young  minstrel  birds  at  play. 


The  vale,  and  hill,  and  balmy  grove, 

With  dewy  gems  are  bright ; 
In  mountain  wilds,  where'er  we  rove, 

Beauty  attracts  our  sight ; 
The  caroling  of  happy  birds 

More  joyous  makes  the  scene; 
And  pleasant  'tis  to  view  the  herds 

Trip  round  the  velvet  green. 

*Tis  morn  —  I  trace  the  rosy  aisles 

Of  yonder  garden  rare ; 
Each  swelling  bud  seems  fraught  with  smiles 

That  thinking  hearts  may  share. 
The  tall  carnation  pink  is  by. 

With  breatli  of  incense  sweet, 
Unfolding  splendors  to  each  eye 

That  will  its  beauties  greet. 


FLOWERS.  255 


I  sit  me  by  the  tulip  mcuid 

Whiere  Fancy  slieds  her  light; 
Here  gems  of  eveiy  tint  abound. 

Most  charming  to  the  sight. 
The  lily  of  the  valley,  too, 

And  the  forget-me-not. 
Come  forth  as  stars  of  light  anew 

To  gild  the  garden  spot. 

The  damask  rose  and  myrtle  flowers, 

Nai'cissus  and  sweet  pea. 
With  lustre  shine  in  garden  bowers. 

As  stars  shine  on  the  sea. 
Nature  in  loveliness  appears, 

To  gladden  every  mind ; 
She  may  dispel  our  sighs  and  tears; 

True  joys  in  her  we  find. 

'Tis  noon  —  I  rest  by  purling  stream, 

Where  grows  the  ivy  vine; 
Here  oft  I've  strayed  in  youthful  dream. 

Plucking  the  columbine. 
O,  I  will  sing  of  flowers  —  a  theme 

For  loftiest  pen  to  dwell ; 
How  faint  must  weaker  efforts  seem 

Tlieir  charms  divine  to  tell ! 

W^here  is  the  hand  would  crush  a  flower, 

Unheedful  of  its  worth? 
He  who  outpours  the  genial  shower 

Is  author  of  its  birth. 


256 


MAZEPPA. 


0,  bring  me  flowers  when  the  last, 
Last  pulse  has  told  its  tale  ; 

They  '11  cheer  the  scene  amid  the  blast 
That  turns  the  features  pale. 


— NJ@^i3£4^=CK — 


Lord   ^yron. 


— i-S^J&Es — 


RING   forth   the   horse!'       The    horse  was 
brought ; 
In  truth  he  was  a  noble  steed, 
A  Tartar  of  the  Ukraine  breed, 
Who  look'd  as  though  the  speed  of  thought 
Were  in  his  limbs  ;  but  he  was  wild. 
Wild  as  the  wild  deer,  and  untaught, 
With  spur  and  bridle  undefiled  — 

'Twas  but  a  day  he  had  been  caught ; 
And  snorting,  with  erected  mane, 
And  struggling  fiercely,  but  in  vain, 
In  the  full  foam  of  wrath  and  dread 
To  me  the  desert-born  was  led  ; 
They  bound  me  on,  that  menial  throng. 
Upon  his  back  with  many  a  thong  ; 
Then  loosed  him  with  a  sudden  lash  — 
Away  !  —  away  !  —  and  on  we  dash  !  — 
Torrents  less  rapid  and  less  rash  ! 
Away  !  —  away  !  —  my  breath  was  gone: 
I  saw  not  where  he  hurried  on  : 


MAZEPPA. 


257 


'Twas  scarcely  yet  the  break  of  day, 
Aud  on  he  foam'd  —  away  !  —  away  !  — 
The  last  of  human  sounds  which  rose, 
As  I  was  darted  from  my  foes, 
Was  the  wild  shout  of  savage  laughter. 
Which  on  the  wind  came  roaring  after 
A  moment  from  that  rabble  rout  : 
With  sudden  wrath  I  wrench'd  my  head, 
And  snapp'd  the  cord  which  to  the  mane 
Had  bound  my  neck  in  lieu  of  rein, 
And,  writhing  half  my  form  about, 
Howl'd  back  my  curse ;  but  'midst  the  tread, 
The  thunder  of  my  courser's  speed. 
Perchance  they  did  not  hear  nor  heed  : 
It  vexes  me  —  for  I  would  fain 
Have  paid  their  insult  back  again. 
I  paid  it  well  in  after  days : 
There  is  not  of  that  castle-gate, 
Its  drawbridge  and  portcullis  weight. 
Stone,  bar,  moat,  bridge,  or  barrier  left; 
Nor  of  its  field  a  blade  of  grass. 

Save  what  grows  on  a  ridge  of  wall. 
Where  stood  the  hearthstone  of  the  hall ; 
And  many  a  time  ye  there  might  pass. 
Nor  dream  that  e'er  that  fortress  was  : 
I  saw  its  turrets  in  a  blaze, 
Their  crackling  battlements  all  cleft, 

And  the  hot  lead  pour  down  like  rain 
From  off  the  scorch'd  and  blackening  roof, 
Whose  thickness  was  not  vengeance-proof. 

They  little  thought  that  day  of  pain, 
When  launch'd,  as  on  the  lightning's  flash, 


258  SABBATH    MORXING    IN    THE    COUNTllY. 

They  bade  me  to  destruction  dash, 

That  one  day  I  should  come  again, 
With  twice  five  thousand  horse,  to  thank 

The  Count  for  his  uncourteous  ride. 
They  play'd  me  then  a  bitter  prank. 

When,  with  the  wild  horse  for  my  guide. 
They  bound  me  to  his  foaming  flank  : 
At  length  I  play'd  them  one  as  frank  — 
For  time  at  last  sets  all  things  even  — 
And  if  we  do  but  watch  the  hour, 
There  never  yet  was  human  power 
Which  could  evade,  if  unforgiven. 
The  patient  search  and  vigil  long 
Of  him  who  treasures  up  a  wrong. 


m§  m  tm 


— »-s4ae^s — 


^ailey. 


LOVE  thy  singing,  sacred  as  the  sound  of  hyrana, 
On  some  bright  Sabbath  morning,  on  the  moor. 
Where  all  is  still  save  praise,  and  where,  hard  by, 
The  ripe  grain  shakes  its  bright  beard  in  the  sun  : 
The  wild  bee  hums  more  solemnly  ;  the  deep  sky. 
The  fresh  green  grass,  the  sun,  and  sunny  brooks 
All  look  as  if  they  knew  the  day,  the  hour. 
And  felt  with  man  the  need  and  joy  of  thanks. 


MAKE  YOUR  MARK.  259 


(Xiavid  ^arker 

N  the  quarries  should  you  toil, 

Make  your  mark ; 
Do  you  delve  upon  the  soil, 

Make  your  mark ; 
In  whatever  path  you  go. 

In  whatever  place  you  stand. 
Moving  swift  or  moving  slow. 
With  a  firm  and  honest  hand 
Make  your  mark. 

Should  opponents  hedge  your  way. 

Make  your  mark ; 
Work  by  night  or  work  by  day. 

Make  your  mark ; 
Struggle  manfully  and  well. 

Let  no  obstacles  oppose ; 
None,  right-shielded,  ever  fell 
By  the  weapons  of  his  foes ; 
Make  your  mark 

What  thougli  born  a  peasant's  son ; 

Make  your  mark ; 
Good  by  poor  men  can  be  done ; 

Make  your  mark ; 
Peasants'  garbs  may  warm  the  cold. 
Peasants'  words  may  calm  a  fear; 
Better  far  than  hoarding  gold 
Is  the  di-ying  of  a  tear; 
Make  your  mai'k. 


260 


LIFES  MORNING,   NOON,   AND  KVENING. 


Life  is  fleeting  as  a  shade ; 

Make  j^onr  mark; 
Marks  of  some  kind  must  be  made; 

Make  your  mark ; 
Make  it  wliile  tlie  arm  is  strong, 
In  tlie  golden  liours  of  youtli ; 
Never,  never,  make  it  wrong ; 
Make  it  with  the  stamp  of  truth; 
Make  your  mark. 

— M>S>^a£^^=CK — 


L.  _M.  0) 


— >«fg(3.-»- 


SAW  her  when  life's  tide  was  high, 
Wlien  youth  was  hovering  o'er  her  brow; 
When  joy  was  dancing  in  her  eye, 

And  her  cheek  blushed  liope's  crimson  gloAV 

I  saw  her  'mid  a  fairy  throng; 

She  seemed  the  gayest  of  the  gay; 
I  saw  her  lightly  glide  along, 

'Neath  beauty's  smile  and  i^leasure's  lay. 


I  saw  her  in  her  bridal  robe; 

The  blush  of  joy  was  mounting  high; 
I  -marked  her  bosom's  heaving  throb, 

I  marked  her  dark  and  downcast  eye. 


mSASTERS.  261 


I  saw  her  when  a  mother's  love 
Asked  at  her  hand  a  mother's  care; 

She  looked  an  angel  from  above. 
Hovering  ai'oimd  a  cherub  fair. 

I  saw  her  not  till,  cold  and  pale, 
She  slumbered  on  Death's  icy  arm; 

The  rose  had  faded  on  her  cheek. 
Her  lip  had  lost  its  power  to  charm. 

That  eye  was  dim  which  briglitly  shone. 
That  brow  was  cold,  that  heart  was  still ; 

The  witcheries  of  that  form  had  flown, 
The  lifeless  clay  had  ceased  to  feel. 

I  saw  her  wedded  to  the  grave; 

Her  bridal  robes  were  weeds  of  death; 
And  o'er  her  pale,  cold  brow  was  hung 

The  damp,  sepulchral,  icy  wreath. 


Longfellovj. 


ISASTERS  come  not  singly. 
But  as  if  they  watched  and  waited, 
Scanning  one  another's  motions. 
When  the  first  descends,  the  others 
Follow,  follow,  gathering  flock-wise 
Round  their  victim  sick  and  wounded  — 
First  a  shadow,  then  a  sorrow. 
Till  the  air  is  dark  with  anguish. 


562 


WEALTH   IS   NOT  HAPPINESS. 


JVLrs.  JTorton. 


HAVE  tasted  each  varied  pleasure, 
And  di-ank  of  the  cup  of  delight; 

I  have  danced  to  the  gayest  measure. 
In  the  halls  of  dazzling  light. 

I  have  dwelt  in  a  blaze  of  splendor, 
And  stood  in  the  courts  of  kings ; 
I  have  snatched  at  each  toy  that  could  render 
More  rapid  the  flight  of  Time's  wings. 

But  vainly  I've  sought  for  joy  and  peace 

In  the  life  of  light  and  shade ; 
And  I  turn  with  a  sigh  to  my  own  dear  liome, 

That  home  wliere  my  childhood  played. 

When  jewels  are  sparkling  round  me. 
And  dazzling  with  their  I'ays, 
weep  for  ties  that  bound  me 
In  life's  first  early  days. 

I  sigh  for  one  of  the  sunny  hours, 

Ere  day  was  turned  to  night; 
For  one  of  my  nosegays  of  fresh  wild  flowerSf 

Instead  of  these  jewels  bright. 


*3^'l<g4^*T— 


THE   CHARNEL   SHIP.  263 


Lucretia  Jkf.   (X)avidson 


IIE  breeze  blew  fair,  the  waving  sea 
Ciu'led  sparkling  round  the  vessel's  side; 

The  canvas  spread  with  bosom  free 
Its  swan-like  pinions  o'er  the  tide. 

Evening  had  gemmed  with  glittering  stars 
Her  coronet,  so  dark  and  grand  ; 

The  queen  of  night  with  fleecy  clouds 
Had  formed  her  turban's  snowy  band. 


On,  on  the  stately  vessel  flew. 

With  streamer  waving  far  and  wide; 

When,  lo!  a  bark  appeared  in  view. 
And  gayly  danced  upon  the  tide. 

Each  way  tlie  breeze  its  wild  wing  veered. 

That  way  the  stranger-vessel  turned : 
Now  near  slie  drew;  now,  wafted  far, 

She  fluttered,  trembled,  and  returned. 

"It  is  the  pirate's  cursed  bark! 

The  villains  linger  to  decoy ; 
Thus  bounding  o'er  the  waters  dark. 

They  seek  to  lure,  and  then  destroy. 

"  Perchance  those  strange  and  wayward  signs 
May  be  the  signals  of  distress," 


264  THE  CHAKNEL  SHIP. 

The  captain  cried;  "  foi%  mark  ye,  now, 
Her  sails  are  flapping  wide  and  loose." 

And  now  the  stranger-vessel  came 
Near  to  that  gay  and  gallant  bark ; 

It  seemed  a  wanderer,  fair  and  lone, 
Upon  life's  wave,  so  deep  and  dark. 

And  not  a  mnrmur,  not  a  sound. 

Came  from  that  lone  and  dreary  ship; 

The  icy  chains  of  silence  bound 
Each  rayless  eye  and  pallid  lip. 

For  Death's  wing  had  been  waving  there; 

The  cold  dew  hung  on  every  brow, 
And  sparkled  there,  like  angel  tears. 

Shed  o'er  the  silent  crew  below. 

•    Onward  that  ship  was  gayly  flying. 
Its  bosom  the  sailor's  grave ; 
The  breeze,  'mid  the  shrouds,  in  low  notes  sighing 
Their  requiem  over  the  brave. 

Fly  on,  fly  on,  thou  lone  vessel  of  death. 

Fly  on  with  thy  desolate  crew; 
For  mermaids  are  twining  a  sea-weed  wreath 

'Mong  the  red  coral  groves  for  you. 


— ^;S.3««<^4^»'S~-- 


A   HOME  TO  REST  IN.  265 


JHorfoT-d 

—-^^zS-m^s^^ — 

HE  world,  dear  John,  as  the  old  folks  told  us. 

Is  a  world  of  trouble  and  care; 
Many  a  cloud  of  grief  will  enfold  us, 
And  the  sunshine  of  joy  is  but  rare. 
But    there's    something    yet    to    be   bright  and 
blest  in. 
No  matter  how  humble  the  lot ; 
The  world  still  gives  us  a  home  to  rest  in, 
Its  holiest,  happiest  spot. 


Sweet  home!  dear  home!  on  the  northern  heather, 

On  the  sunniest  southern  plain ; 
The  Lapland  hut  in  its  wintry  weather, 

The  tent  of  the  Indian  main ; 
Be  it  gorgeous  wealth  that  our  temple  is  dressed  in. 

Be  it  poor  and  of  little  worth, 
O  home,  our  home  —  a  home  to  rest  in  — 

Is  the  dearest  thing  on  earth. 

But  time,  dear  John,  is  using  us  badly; 

Our  homes  crumble  day  by  day, 
And  we're  laying  our  dear  ones,  swiftly  and  sadly. 

In  the  dust  of  the  valley  away. 
There's  a  death  robe  soon  for  us  both  to  rest  in, 

A  place  for  us  under  the  sod; 
Be  heaven  at  last  the  home  we  sh.ill  rest  in, 

The  rest  for  the  children  of  God! 


266  THE  EVENING   SAIL. 


8  lf@i.mf 


Crabbe. 


MONG  the  joys,  'tis  one  at  eve  to  sail 

On  the  broad  river,  with  a  favorite  gale ; 
•  Wiien  no  rough  waves  iipon  the  bosom  ride, 
But  the  keel  cuts,  nor  rises  on  the  tide ; 
Safe  from  the  stream  the  nearer  gunwale  standSi 
Where  playful  children  trail  their  idle  hands. 
Or  strive  to  catch  long  grassy  leaves  that  float 
On  either  side  of  the  impeded  boat ; 
Wliat  time  the  moon  arising  sliovvs  the  mud, 
A  shining  border  to  the  silver  flood ; 
When,  by  her  dubious  liglit,  tlie  meanest  views, 
Chalk,  stones,  and  stakes,  obtain  the  richest  hues ; 
And  when  the  cattle,  as  tlicy  gazing  stand. 
Seem  nobler  objects  than  when  viewed  from  land; 
Then  anchored  vessels  in  the  way  appear. 
And  sea-boys  greet  them  as  they  pass,  "  What  clieer?" 
The  sleeping  shell-ducks  at  the  sound  arise. 
And  utter  loud  tlieir  uuharmonious  cries ; 
Fluttering,  they  move  their  weedy  beds  among, 
Or  instant  diving,  liide  their  plumeless  young. 
Along  the  wall,  returning  from  the  town. 
The  weary  rustic  homeward  wanders  down; 
Who  stops  and  gazes  at  such  joyous  crew. 
And  feels  his  envy  rising  at  the  view; 
He  the  light  speech  and  laugh  indignant  hears. 
And  feels  more  pressed  by  want,  more  vexed  by  fears. 


THE   EVENING   SAIL.  267 


Ah!  go  in  peace,  gooil  fellow,  to  thine  home, 
"Noi"  fancy  these  escape  the  general  doom  ; 
Gay  as  they  seem,  be  sure  with  them  are  hearts 
"With  sorrow  tried ;  there's  sadness  in  their  parts : 
If  thou  couldst  see  them  when  they  think  alone. 
Mirth,  music,  friends,  and  those  amusements  gone; 
Couldst  thou  discover  every  secret  ill 
That  pains  their  spirit,  or  resists  their  will ; 
Couldst  thou  behold  forsaken  Love's  distress. 
Or  Envy's  pang  at  glory  and  success, 
Or  Beauty,  conscious  of  the  spoils  of  Time, 
Or  Guilt  alarmed  when  Memory  shows  the  crime; 
All  that  gives  sorrow,  terror,  grief,  and  gloom ; 
Content  would  cheer  thee  trudging  to  thine  home. 

There  are,  'tis  true,  who  lay  their  cares  aside, 
And  bid  some  hours  in  calm  enjoyment  glide; 
Perchance  some  fair  one  to  the  sober  night 
Adds  (by  the  sweetness  of  her  song)  delight; 
And  as  the  music  on  the  water  floats. 
Some  bolder  shore  returns  the  softened  notes; 
Then,  youth,  beware,  for  all  around  conspire 
To  banish  caution  and  to  wake  desire; 
The  day's  amusement,  feasting,  beauty,  wine, 
These  accents  sweet  and  this  soft  hour  combine, 
When  most  unguarded,  then  to  win  that  heart  of  thine. 
But  see,  they  land!  the  fond  enchantment  flies, 
And  in  its  place  life's  common  views  arise. 


268 


THE  GRAVE   OF   MRS.   JUDSON. 


:>>«<o 


J/Tiss  _}/[.   Jlemick. 


OT  where  the  chimes  of  the  Sabbath  bell 

Ring  out  the  peaceful  air. 
As  multitudes  through  the  silent  street 

Wend  their  way  to  the  house  of  prayer; 
Not  where  the  wild  rose  showers  down 

Her  leaves  in  the  paths  untrod, 
Where  the  oaks  and  the  rustling  aspens  wave 

O'er  New  England's  flowery  sod ;  — 


But  lone  and  still  is  her  island  grave 

'Neath  the  broad  blue,  spreading  sky. 
Where  the  waves  rise  up  with  their  sounding  dirge. 

And  the  hurrying  ships  go  by; 
Afar  from  the  bloom  of  that  gorgeous  land 

Where  her  toiling  youth  was  spent, 
With  a  load  of  cares,  and  griefs,  and  hopes, 

Her  life's  short  summer  was  blent. 

That  island  grave  with  its  swelling  tui'f, 

Where  the  gray  clifl's  proudly  rise, 
I  look  to-day  on  the  glistening  stones 

In  the  light  of  the  summer  skies ; 
And  sadly  I  think  of  the  little  band 

That  are  scattered  far  and  wide ; 
One  sleeping  down  where  the  corals  grow, 

Under  the  surging  tide. 


HAPPINESS.  269 

They  will  gather  all  in  the  angel  home 

That  brighten  that  heavenly  land  — 
The  wife  who  sleeps  in  the  island  grave. 

The  boy  from  the  Indian  strand ; 
And  they  who  are  wanderers  on  the  earthi 

How  glad  will  the  meeting  be 
Of  that  widely-scattered  household  band 

In  the  land  beyond  the  sea! 


(Pollok. 


RUE  happiness  had  no  localities ; 
No  tones  provincial ;  no  peculiar  garb. 
Where  duty  went,  she  went;  witli  justice  went, 
"^And  went  with  meekness,  charity,  and  love. 
Where'er  a  tear  was  dried ;  a  wounded  heart 
Bounil  up;  a  bruised  spirit  with  the  dew 
Of  sympathy  anointed ;  or  a  pang 
Of  honest  suffering  soothed ;  or  injury 
Repeated  oft,  as  oft  by  love  forgiven : 
Where'er  an  evil  passion  was  subdued. 
Or  virtue's  feeble  embers  fjinned ;  where'er 
A  sin  was  heartily  abjured,  and  left; 
Where'er  a  pious  act  was  done,  or  breathed 
A  pious  prayer,  or  wished  a  pious  wish, — 
There  was  a  high  and  holy  place,  a  spot 
Of  sacred  light,  a  most  religious  fane, 
Where  Happiness,  descending,  sat  and  smiled. 


270  THE    CORNELIAN. 


0  specious  splendor  of  this  stone 
Endears  it  to  my  memory  ever ; 
With  lustre  only  once  it  shone, 
;;j     And  blushes  modest  as  the  giver. 

Some,  who  can  sneer  at  friendship's  ties, 
Have  for  my  weakness  oft  reproved  me  ; 

Yet  still  the  simple  gift  I  prize. 
For  I  am  sure  the  giver  loved  me. 


He  offered  it  with  downcast  look, 
As  fearful  that  I  might  refuse  it ; 

I  told  him,  when  the  gift  I  took, 
My  only  fear  should  be  to  lose  it. 

This  pledge  attentively  I  viewed, 
And  sparkling  as  I  held  it  near, 

Methought  one  drop  the  stone  bedewed. 
And  ever  since  I've  loved  a  tear. 

Still  to  adorn  his  humble  youth. 

Nor  wealth  nor  birth  their  treasures  yield; 
But  he  who  seeks  the  flowers  of  truth 

Must  quit  the  garden  for  the  field. 

'Tis  not  the  plant  upreared  in  sloth 

Which  beauty  shows,  and  sheds  perfume; 


GOD   IJLESS   OUR   FATHER   LAND.  271 

The  flowers  which  yield  the  most  of  both 
In  nature's  wild  luxuriance  bloom 

Had  Fortune  aided  Nature's  care, 

For  once  forgetting  to  be  blind, 
His  would  have  been  an  ample  share. 

If  well-proportioned  to  his  mind. 

But  had  the  goddess  clearly  seen, 
His  form  had  fixed  her  fickle  breast , 

Her  countless  hoards  would  his  have  been. 
And  none  remained  to  give  the  rest. 


♦M®^3€>*^ 


O.  W.  Holmes 


OD  bless  our  father  land, 
Keep  her  in  heart  and  hand 

One  with  our  own  ; 
From  all  her  foes  defend, 
Be  her  brave  people's  friend ; 
On  all  her  realms  descend  ; 

Protect  her  throne. 

Father,  in  loving  care 
Guard  thou  her  kingdom's  heir. 
Guide  all  his  ways  ; 


272  ONLY    ONE    LIFE. 


Thine  arm  his  shelter  be 
From  harm  by  land  and  sea  ; 
Bid  storm  and  danger  flee; 
Prolong  his  days. 

Lord,  bid  war's  trumpet  cease; 
Fold  the  whole  earth  in  peace 

Under  thy  wings  ; 
Make  all  thy  nations  one, 
All  hearts  beneath  thy  sun. 
Till  thou  shalt  reign  alone. 

Great  King  of  kings. 


Jinoru 


IS  not  for  man  to  trifle  :  life  is  brief 
And  sin  is  here. 
^  Our  age  is  but  the  falling  of  a  leaf 

A  dropping  tear. 
'^  We  have  no  time  to  sport  away  the  hours ; 
All  must  be  earnest  in  a  world  like  ours. 

Not  many  lives,  but  only  one  have  we ; 

One,  only  one. 
How  sacred  should  that  one  life  ever  be  — 
Day  after  day  filled  up  with  blessed  toil, 
Hour  after  hour  still  bringing  in  new  spoil  1 


THE    MAY    QUEEN.  273 


Jllfred  Tennyson. 
PAKT     FIRST. 

OU  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early, 

mother  dear  ; 
To-morrow  '11  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad 

new  year  ; 
Of  all  the  glad  new  year,  mother,  the  maddest, 

merriest  day  ; 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm 

to  be  Queen  o'  the  May, 

I  sleep  so  sound  all  night,  mother,  that  I  shall  never  wake, 

If  you  do  not  call  me  loud,  when  the  day  begins  to  break  ; 

But  I  must  gather  knots  of  flowers,  and  buds  and  gar- 
lands gay. 

For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen 
o'  the  May. 

Little  Effie  shall  go  with  me  to-morrow  to  the  green. 
And  you'll  be   there  too,  mother,  to  see  me  made  the 

Queen  ; 
For  the  shepherd   lads  on   every  side  '11   come  from  far 

away. 
And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen 

o'  the  May. 

All  the  valley,  mother,  '11  be  fresh,  and  green,  and    till. 
And  the  cowslip  and  the  crowfoot  are  over  all  the  hill, 


274  THE    MAY    QUEEN, 


And  the  rivulet  in  the  flowery  dale  '11  merrily  glance  and 

play, 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen 

o'  the  May. 

So  you  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother 

dear  ; 
To-morrow  '11  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  new 

year; 
To-morrow  '11  be   of  all  the  year  the  maddest,  merric/St 

day, 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen 

o'  the  May. 

PART    SECOND NEW    YEAr's    EVE. 

If  you're  waking,  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear; 
For  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  new  year  ; 
It  is  the  last  new  year  that  I  shall  ever  see  ; 
Then  you   may  lay  me  low  i'  the   mould,  and   think   no 
more  of  me. 

To-night  I  saw  the  sun  set ;  he  set  and  left  behind 
The  good  old  year,  the  dear  old  time,  and  all  my  peace 

of  mind ; 
And  the  newyear's  coming  up,  mother,  but  I  shall  never  see 
The  blossom  on  the  blackthorn,  the  leaf  upon  the  tree. 

There's  not  a  flower  on  all  the  hills ;  the  frost  is  on  the 

pane  ; 
I  only  wish  to  live  till  the  snowdrops  come  again ; 
I  wish  the  snow  would  melt,  and  the  sun  come  out  on  high; 
I  long  to  see  a  flower  so  before  the  day  I  die. 


4'IiB    MAY    titJKKJ^,  275 


rh(-  building  rook  'U  caw  trom  tho  windv,  tall  elm-tree. 

And  the  tufted  plover  pipe  aioug  the  fallow  lea, 

And  the  u^wallow  '11  oome  back  again  with  summer  o'er  the 

wave, 
But  I  shall  lie  alot>e,  mother,  within  the  mouldering  grave 

When  the  flowers  couie  again,  mother,  beneath  the  wan- 
ing light. 

You'll  never  see  me  more  in  the  long,  gray  fields  at 
night ; 

When  from  the  dry,  dark  wold  the  summer  airs  blow 
cool. 

On  the  oat-grass  and  the  sword-grass,  and  the  bulrush  in 
pool. 

You'll  bury  me,  my  mother,  just  beneath   the  hawthorn 

shade. 
And  you'll  come  sometimes  and  see  me  where  I  am  lowly 

laid. 
1  shall  not  forget   you,  mother ;  I  shall  hear  you  when 

you  pass 
With  your  feet  above  my  head  in  the  long  and  pleasant 

grass. 

If  I  can  I'll   come   again,  mother,  from   out  my  resting 

place  ; 
Though  you'll  not  see  me,  mother,  I  shall  look  upon  your 

face  ; 
Though  I  cannot  speak  a  word,  I  shall  hearken  what  you 

say, 
And  be  often,  often  with  you  when   you   think  I'm  far 

away. 


276  THE    MAY    QUEEN. 


Good  night,  good  night ;  when   I  have  said  good  night 

forevermore, 
And  you  see   me  carried  out  from  the  threshold  of  the 

door, 
Don't  let  Effie  come  to  see  me  till  my  grave  be  growing 

green ; 
She'll  be  a  better  child  to  you  than  ever  I  have  been. 

Good  night,  sweet  mother,  call  me  before  the  day  is  born  ; 
All  night  I  lie  awake,  but  I  fall  asleep  at  morn  ; 
But  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New  Year ; 
So,  if  you're  waking,  call  me,  call  me  early,  mother  dear. 

PART    THIRD CONCLUSION. 

I  thought  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet  alive  I  am  ; 
And  in  the  fields  all  round  I  hear  the  bleating  of  the  lamb. 
How  sadly,  I  remember,  rose  the  morning  of  the  year; 
To  die  before  the  snowdrop  came,  and  now  the  violet's  here. 

0,  sweet  is  the  new  violet,  that  comes  beneath  the  skies  ; 
And  sweeter  is  the  young  lamb's  voice  to  me,  that  cannot 

rise  ; 
And  sweet  is  all  the  land  about,  and  all  the  flowers  that 

blow ; 
And  sweeter  far  is  death  than  life  to  me,  that  long  to  go. 

I  did  not  hear  the  dog  howl,  mother,  or  the  death  watch 

beat ; 
There  came  a  sweeter  token  wben  the  night  and  morning 

meet : 
But  sit  beside  my  bed,  mother,  and  put  your  hand  in  mine, 
A-nd  Effie  on  the  other  side,  and  I  will  tell  the  sign. 


THE    MAY    QUEEN.  '  27" 

All  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  the  angels  call ; 
It  was  when  the  moon  was  setting,  and  the  dark  was  over  all; 
The  trees  began  to  whisper,  and  the  wind  began  to  roll, 
And  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  them  call  mjsoul. 

For  lying  broad  awake,  I  thought  of  you  and  Effie  dear  r 
I  saw  you  sitting  in  the  house,  and  I  no  longer  here  ; 
With   all   my  strength  I  prayed  for  both,  and   so  I  felt 

resigned. 
And  up  the  valley  came  a  swell  of  music  on  the  wind. 

I  thought  that  it  was  fancy,  and  I  listened  in  my  bed. 
And  then  did  something  speak  to  me —  I  know  not  what 

was  said  ; 
For  great  delight  and  shuddering  took  hold  of  all  my  mind. 
And  up  the  valley  came  again  the  music  of  the  wind. 

But  you  were  sleeping,  and  I  said,  "  It's  not  for  them ; 

it's  mine." 
And  if  it  comes  three  times,  I  thought,  I'd  take  it  for 

a  sign. 
And  once  again  it  came,  and  close  beside  the  window-bars, 
Then  seemed  to  go  right  up  to  Heaven,  and  die  among 

the  stars. 

So  now  I  think  my  time  is  near.     I  ti-ust  it  is.     I  know 
The  blessed  music  went  that  way  my  soul  will  love  to  go. 
And  for  myself,  indeed,  I  care  not  if  I  go  to-day  ; 
But,  Effie,  you  must  comfort  her  when  I  am  passed  away. 

0,  look !  the  sun  begins  to  rise,  the  heavens  are  in  a  glow; 
He  shines  upon  a  hundred  fields,  and  all  of  them  I  know  j 


278  '  BONDS    OF    AFFECTION. 

And  there  I  move  no  longer  now,  and  there  his  light  maji 

shine, 
Wild  flowers  in  the  valley,  for  other  hands  than  mine. 

0,  sweet  and  strange  it  seems  to  me,  that  ere  this  day  is 

done, 
The  voice  that  now  is  speaking  may  be  beyond  the  sun  — 
Forever  and  forever  with  those  just  souls  and  true  : 
And  what  is  life,  that  we  should  moan  ?     Why  make  we 

such  ado  ? 

Forever  and  forever,  all  in  a  blessed  home, 
And  there  to  wait  a  little  while  till  you  and  EfEe  come  — 
To  lie  within  the  light  of  God,  as  I  lie  upon  your  breast. 
And  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are 
at  rest. 

■ -CSrs^ • 


Landon. 


^^^2)  HERE  is  in  life  no  blessing  like  affection  ; 
^jj[j)lt  soothes,  it  hallows,  elevates,  subdues. 

And  bringeth  down  to  earth  its  native  heaveD- 
It  sits  beside  the  cradle  patient  hours. 
Whose  sole  contentment  is  to  watch  and  love; 
It  bendeth  o'er  the  death-bed,  and  conceals 
Its  own  despair  with  words  of  faith  and  hope. 
Life  has  nought  else  tliat  may  supply  its  place ; 
Void  is  ambition,  cold  is  vanity, 
x\nd  wealth  an  empty  glitter,  without  love. 


MY    CREED.  27? 


filice  Gary, 

HOLD  that  Christian  grace  abounds, 
Where  charity  is  seen  ;  that  when 
We  climb  to  heaven,  'tis  on  the  rounds 
Of  love  to  men. 

I  hold  all  else,  named  piety, 

A  selBsh  scheme,  a  vain  pretence! 
Where  centre  is  not,  can  there  be 
Circumference  ? 

This  I  moreover  hold  and  dare 

Attirm  where'er  my  rhyme  may  go ; 
Whatever  things  be  sweet  or  fair, 
Love  makes  them  so. 

Whether  it  be  the  sickle's  rush 

Through  wheat  fields,  or  the  fall  of  showers. 
Or  by  some  cabin  door  a  bush 
Of  rugged  flowers. 

'Tis  not  the  wide  phylactery, 

Nor  stubborn  fast,  nor  stated  prayers. 
That  makes  us  saints ;  we  judge  the  tree 
By  what  it  bears. 

And  when  a  man  can  live  apart 

From  works,  on  theologic  trust, 
I  know  the  blood  about  his  heart 
Is  dry  as  dust. 


280 


THE   KOSE   ];y   THE    WAYSIUE. 


^8i    hi    IM 


(X>.  Jk.  (Drown. 


LITTLE  rose  bloomed  in  the  way 
In  which  I  roamed  one  sunny  day; 

It  looked  so  fair, 
I  wondered  why  alone  it  grew, 
Ana  why  so  long  concealed  from  view 

While  nestling  there. 


Its  Dlushing  petals,  wide  outspread, 
A  richer  perfume  quickly  shed, 

i>»ripping  with  dew, 
Which  seemed  in  wliispered  tones  to  sav. 
As  soon  I  put  the  thorns  away, 

"  I  bloomed  for  you. 

"The  sunshine  kissed  my  lips  at  moi'n, 
Soon  as  I  peeped  to  hail  the  dawn. 

With  blushes  red ; 
I  was  content  through  day  to  day; 
No  roaming  footsteps  passed  this  way 

By  beauty  led." 

I  claimed  the  treasure,  pure  and  fair. 
As  all  mine  own;  with  special  care 

I  kept  it  long; 
I  said  sweet  sayings  o'er  and  o'er : 
But  one  bright  morn  it  sjjoke  no  more; 

Its  leaves  were  gone. 


FROM   AN   ITALIAN   SONNET.  281 

Thus  in  the  varied  paths  of  life, 
Amid  its  cares,  its  toils,  its  strife, 

We  often  roam ; 
Then  some  sweet  memories  charm  us  here, 
Some  holy  thoughts  dispel  all  fear, 

And  guide  us  home. 

And  when  earth's  charms,  like  withered  flowers, 
Amid  affliction's  darkest  hours 

No  longer  cheer, 
A  holy  peace,  a  quiet  joy, 
Which  unbelief  can  ne'er  destroy, 

Brings  Heaven  near. 


St. 

I^og-ers, 


SAID  to  Time,  "This  venerable  pile. 
Its  floor  the  earth,  its  roof  the  firmament, 
Whose  was  it  once?"     He  answered  not,  but  fled 
Fast  as  before.     I  turned  to  Fame,  and  asked, 
"Names    such    as    his,    to    thee   they   must   be 

known ; 
Speak!"     But  she  answered  only  with  a  sigh. 
And,  musing  mournfully,  looked  on  the  ground. 
Then  to  Oblivion  I  addressed  myself  — 
A  dismal  phantom,  sitting  at  the  gate; 
And,  with  a  voice  as  from  the  grave,  he  cried, 
" Wliose  it  was  once  I  care  not;  now  'tis  mine!" 


282  LOVE   AND   REASON. 


J/Lore. 
'  *  i  2E  i  *  ° 

WAS  in  the  summer  time  so  sweet, 

When  hearts  and  flowers  are  both  in  season. 
That  —  who,  of  all  the  world,  should  meet, 
i^     One  early  dawn,  but  Love  and  Reason! 

Love  told  his  dream  of  yesternight. 

While  Reason  talked  about  the  weather ; 
The  morn,  in  sooth,  was  fair  and  bright, 
And  on  they  took  their  way  together. 


The  boy  in  many  a  gambol  flew. 
While  Reason,  like  a  Juno,  stalked, 

And  from  her  portly  figure  threw 
A  lengthened  shadow  as  she  walked. 

No  wonder  Love,  as  on  they  passed, 
Should  find  that  sunny  morning  chill; 

For  still  the  shadow  Reason  cast 

Fell  on  the  boy,  and  cooled  him  still. 

In  vain  he  tried  his  wings  to  warm. 

Or  find  a  pathway  not  so  dim. 
For  still  the  maid's  gigantic  form 

Would  pass  between  the  sun  and  him! 

"This  must  not  bo,"  said  little  Love  — 
"  The  sun  was  made  for  more  than  you.' 


LOVE  AND  UEASON.  283 


So,  turning  tlirough  a  myrtle  grove, 
He  bade  the  portly  nymph  adieu. 

Now  gladly  roves  tiie  laughing  boy 
O'er  many  a  mead,  by  many  a  stream. 

In  every  breeze  inhaling  joy, 

And  drinking  bliss  in  every  beam. 

From  all  the  gardens,  all  the  bowers. 
He  culled  the  many  sweets  they  shaded, 

And  ate  the  fruits,  and  smelled  the  flowers, 
Till  taste  was  gone  and  odor  foded. 

But  now  the  sun,  in  pomp  of  noon, 

Looked  blazing  o'er  the  parched  plains ; 

Alas !  the  boy  grew  languid  soon. 

And  fever  thrilled  through  all  his  veins ; 

The  dew  forsook  his  baby  brow. 

No  more  with  vivid  bloom  he  smiled; 

(),  where  was  tranquil  Reason  now. 
To  cast  her  shadow  o'er  the  cliild? 

Beneath  a  green  and  aged  palm. 

His  foot,  at  length,  for  shelter  turning, 

He  saw  the  nymph  reclining  calm, 

With  brow  as  cool  as  his  was  burning. 

"  O,  take  me  to  that  bosom  cold," 
In  murmurs  at  her  feet  he  said ; 

And  Reason  oped  her  garment's  fold. 
And  flung  it  round  his  fevered  head. 


284  THE  bride's  farewell. 

He  felt  her  bosom's  icy  touch, 

And  soon  it  lulled  his  pulse  to  rest ; 

For,  ah !  the  chill  was  quite  too  much, 
And  Love  expired  on  Reason's  breast. 


J^rs.  Hemans. 

(1  HY  do  I  weep  ?  to  leave  the  vine 
^     Whose  clusters  o'er  me  bend,  — 
CMI^MiA  The  myrtle  —  yet,  0  call  it  mine, 
The  flowers  I  loved  to  tend. 
A  thousand  thoughts  of  all  things  dear 

Like  shadows  o'er  me  sweep. 
To  leave  my  sunny  childhood  here  ; 
O,  therefore  let  me  weep. 

I  leave  thee,  sister  ;  we  have  played 

Through  many  a  joyous  hour, 
Where  the  silvery  green  of  the  olive  shade 

Hung  dim  o'er  fount  and  bower ; 
Yes,  thou  and  I,  by  stream,  by  shore, 

In  song,  in  prayer,  in  sleep. 
Have  been  as  we  may  be  no  more ; 

Kind  sister,  let  me  weep. 

I  leave  thee,  father  ;  eve's  bright  moon 

Must  now  light  other  feet. 
With  the  gathered  grapes,  and  the  lyre  in  tune. 

Thy  homeward  step  to  greet, 


THE    DAYS    OP    YORE.  285 

Thou  in  whose  voice,  to  bless  thy  child, 

Rang  tones  of  love  so  deep, 
Whose  eye  o'er  all  my  youth  hath  smiled, 

I  leave  thee  ;  let  me  weep. 

Mother,  I  leave  thee  ;  on  thy  breast, 

Pouring  out  joy  and  woe, 
I  have  found  that  holy  place  of  rest 

Still  changeless  — yet  I  go. 
Lips  that  have  lulled  me  with  your  strain, 

Eyes  that  have  watched  my  sleep. 
Will  earth  give  love  like  yours  again  ? 

Sweet  mother,  let  me  weep. 


y=K:'C-^-^' 


(X>oug-las  I'hompmcn 


OU  see  the  slender  spire  that  peers 
Above  the  trees  that  skirt  the  stream ; 

'Twas  there  I  passed  those  early  years 
Which  now  seem  like  some  happy  dream- 

You  see  the  vale  that  bounds  the  view : 
'Twas  there  my  father's  mansion  stood, 

Before  the  grove,  whose  varied  hue 
Is  mirrored  in  the  tranquil  flood. 


There's  not  a  stone  remaining  there, 
A  relic  of  that  fine  old  hall ; 


286  THE    PATH    OF   INDEPENDENCE. 

For  strangers  came  the  spot  to  share, 
And  bade  the  stately  structure  fall ! 

But  now,  if  Fortune  proves  my  friend, 
And  gives  me  what  may  yet  remain, 

In  that  dear  spot  my  days  to  end. 
I'll  build  a  mansion  there  again. 


>^4Ef?§St>-H 


finjon< 


— »-S?Be>5 — 


N  easy  task  it  is  to  tread 

The  path  the  multitude  will  take  ; 
But  independence  dares  the  stake 
If  but  by  fair  conviction  led. 

Then  haste,  truth-seeker,  on  thy  way. 

Nor  heed  the  worldling's  smile  or  frown; 
The  brave  alone  shall  wear  the  crown 

The  noble  only  clasp  the  bay. 

Go,  worker  of  the  public  weal ; 

When  knaves  combine,  and  plot  and  plan, 

Assert  the  dignity  of  man. 
Teach  the  dishonest  hearts  to  feel. 

Still  keep  thy  independence  whole  ; 

Let  nothing  warp  thee  from  thy  course, 
And  thou  shalt  wield  a  giant's  force, 

Aud  wrong  before  thy  foot  sliall  roll. 


A  riCTUKE.  287 


S-   (P.  Shillaber 

HERE'S  a  little  low  hut  by  the  river  side, 
Witliin  the  sound  of  its  rippling  tide; 
Its  walls  are  gray  with  the  moss  of  years, 
And  its  roof  all  crumbly  and  old  appears; 
But  fairer  to  me  than  a  castle's  pride 
Is  the  little  low  hut  by  the  river  side. 


The  little  low  hut  was  my  natal  nest. 

Where  my  cJiildhood  passed  —  life's  spring-time  blest; 

Wliere  tiie  hopes  of  ardent  youth  were  formed. 

And  the  sun  of  promise  my  young  heart  warmed, 

Ere  I  tln-ew  myself  on  life's  swift  tide, 

And  loft  the  dear  hut  by  the  river  side. 

This  little  old  hut,  in  lowly  guise. 
Was  lofty  and  grand  to  my  youthful  eyes, 
And  fairer  trees  were  ne'er  known  before 
Than  the  apple-trees  by  the  humble  door. 
That  my  father  loved  for  their  thrifty  pride, 
Which  shadowed  the  hut  by  the  nver's  side. 

That  little  low  hut  had  a  glad  hearth-stone, 
Tiiat  echoed  of  old  with  a  pleasant  tone, 
And  brotliers  and  sisters,  a  merr}^  crew, 
Filled  the  hours  with  pleasure  as  on  tliey  flew; 
But  one  by  one  have  the  loved  ones  died 
That  dwelt  in  the  hut  by  the  river's  side. 


288  A   PICTUKE. 


The  father  and  the  children  gay 

The  grave  and  the  world  have  called  away ; 

But  quietly  all  alone  there  sits 

By  the  pleasant  window  in  summer,  and  knits. 

An  aged  woman,  long  years  allied 

With  the  little  old  hut  by  the  river's  side. 

That  little  old  hut  to  the  lonely  wife 
Is  the  cherished  stage  of  her  active  life ; 
Each  scene  is  recalled  in  memory's  beam. 
As  she  sits  by  the  window  in  pensive  dream, 
And  joys  and  woes  roll  back  like  a  tide, 
In  that  little  old  hut  by  the  river's  side. 

My  mother!  — alone,  by  the  river  side. 

She  waits  for  the  flood  of  the  heavenly  tide. 

And  the  voice  that  shall  thrill  her  heart  with  its  call 

To  meet  once  more  with  the  dear  ones  all, 

And  form,  in  region  beautified, 

The  band  that  first  met  by  the  river's  side. 

That  dear  old  hut  by  the  river's  side 
With  the  warmest  pulse  of  my  heart  is  allied. 
And  a  glory  is  over  its  dark  walls  thrown 
That  statelier  fabrics  have  never  known ; 
And  I  shall  still  love,  with  a  fonder  pride, 
That  little  old  hut  by  the  river's  side. 


AN   ACROSTIC. 


28S 


F.  fi 


f\//^^  LECTRTC  essence  permeates  the  air, 

'  [^  Lighting  the  heavens  with  its  brilliant  glare. 
Encircling  planets  in  its  huge  embrace, 
y7)Controlling  all  the  elements  of  space. 
b    'Tis  this  that  sways  the  immortal  mind, 
f      Refines  and  elevates  all  human  kind. 
In  it  the  spirit  finds  its  highest  light, 
Celestial  soui'ce  of  God,  the  Infinite. 
In  vain  doth  man  its  secrets  strive  to  know ; 
Time  nor  eternity  can  all  its  secrets  show. 
Ye  minds  progressive,  whose  great  spirits  yearn 
In  Nature's  face  her  attributes  to  learn. 
Shut  off  the  gross  and  dark  external  view, 
The  gross  and  selfish,  and  behold  the  true. 
Heaven  is  a  flower  to  full  perfection  grown. 
Earth  is  a  bud  that's  not  yet  fully  blown ; 
Both  are  the  ofi'shoots  of  one  parent  stem, 
Resting  like  jewels  in  God's  diadem. 
Earth  seems  foirest  when  by  Heaven  embraced. 
As  pearls  show  purest  when  near  rubies  placed. 
The  height  of  pleasure  is  where  pain  is  not ; 
Hwftven  is  nearest  when  earth  is  most  forgot 
Of  this  be  sure :  when  the  electric  fires 
From  spheres  celestial  fan  thy  soul's  desires, 
God  speaks  to  thee !  as  when  the  gentle  dove 
On  Jesus'  head  descended  from  above. 
Divinely  laden  with  celestial  love. 


i90  FROM   THE   MERCHANT   OF   VENICE. 


ot*Jc 


Shakespeare 


Lorenzo. 
OW  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  tliis  bank! 
Hero  will  we  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
, Creep  in  our  ears ;  soft  stillness,  and  the  nighty 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 
Sit,  Jessica,  look,  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold ; 
There's  not  the  smallest  orb  wdiich  thou  behold'st 

But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 

Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  cherubims : 

Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls ; 

But,  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 

Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it. 

\_Enter  Musicians. 

Come,  ho,  and  wake  Diana  with  a  hymn ; 

Witli  sweetest  touches  jiierce  your  mistress'  ear, 

And  draw  her  home  with  music. 


Jessica. 
I  am  never  merry  when  I  hear  sweet  music. 


\_Music. 


Lorenzo 

The  reason  is,  your  spirits  are  attentive; 
For  do  but  note  a  wild  and  wanton  herd, 
Or  race  of  youthful  and  unhandled  colts. 
Fetching  mad  bounds,  bellowing  and  neighing  loud, 
Which  is  the  hot  condition  of  their  blood; 
If  they  but  hear  perchance  a  trumpet  sound. 


THE   POET.  291 

Or  any  air  of  music  toucli  their  ears, 

You  shall  perceive  them  make  a  mutual  stand, 

Their  savage  eyes  turned  to  a  modest  gaze 

By  the  sweet  power  of  music ;  therefore,  the  poet 

Did  feign  that  Orpheus  drew  trees,  stones,  and  floods; 

Since  nought  so  stoekish,  hard,  and  full  of  rage, 

But  music  for  the  time  doth  change  his  nature. 

The  man  that  hath  no  music  in  himself. 

Nor  is  not  moved  with  concord  of  sweet  sounds, 

Is  fit  for  treason,  stratagems,  and  spoils : 

The  motions  of  his  spirit  are  dull  as  night, 

And  his  affections  dark  as  Erebus  : 

Let  no  such  man  be  trusted. 


■+^^+' 


TU  F@et, 


FROM  THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


8coU, 


ALL  it  not  vain ;  they  do  not  err, 
Who  say  that  when  the  Poet  dies. 

Mute  Nature  mourns  her  worshipper, 
And  celebrates  his  obsequies ; 

Who  say,  tall  cliff,  and  cavern  lone, 

For  the  departed  Bard  make  moan ; 

That  mountains  weep  in  crystal  rill; 

That  flowers  in  tears  of  balm  distil; 

Through  his  loved  groves  that  breezes  sigh. 

And  oaks,  in  deeper  groans,  reply ; 


292  THE   POET. 

And  rivers  teach  their  rushing  wave 
To  murmur  dirges  round  his  grave. 


Not  that,  in  sootli,  o'er  mortal  urn 

Those  things  inanimate  can  mourn  ; 

But  that  the  stream,  the  wood,  the  gale. 

Is  vocal  with  the  plaintive  wail 

Of  those  who,  else  forgotten  long. 

Lived  in  the  poet's  faithful  song; 

And,  with  the  jwet's  parting  hreath. 

Whose  memory  feels  a  second  death. 

The  maid's  pale  shade,  who  wails  her  lot. 

That  love,  true  love,  should  be  forgot. 

From  rose  and  hawthorn  shakes  tho  tear 

Upon  the  gentle  minstrel's  bier; 

The  phantom  night,  his  glory  fled, 

Mourns  o'er  the  field  he  heaped  with  dead ; 

Mounts  the  wild  blast  that  sweeps  amain, 

And  shrieks  along  the  battle-plam. 

The  chief,  whose  antique  crownlet  long 

Still  sparkled  in  the  feudal  song. 

Now,  from  the  mountain's  misty  throne, 

Sees,  in  the  thanedom  once  his  own, 

His  ashes  undistinguished  lie, 

His  place,  his  power,  his  memory  die; 

His  groans  the  lonely  c:iverns  fill ; 

His  tears  of  rage  impel  the  rill  : 

All  mourn  the  minstrel's  harp  unstrung, 

Their  name  unknown,  their  praise  unsung. 


ILLUSTKATION    OF    A    PICTURE.  293 


A  SPANISH   GIRL   IN   REVERIE 


O.  W.  Holrri.es 


HE  twirled  the  string  of  golden  beads 

That  round  her  neck  was  hung  — 
My  grandsire's  gift ;   the  good  old  man 

Loved  girls  when  he  was  young ; 
And,  bending  lightly  o'er  the  cord, . 

And  turning  half  away, 
With  something  like  a  youthful  sigh, 

Thus  spoke  the  maiden  gay  :  — 

"  Well,  one  may  trail  her  silken  robe. 

And  bind  her  locks  with  pearls  ; 
And  one  may  wreathe  the  woodland  rose 

Among  her  floating  curls  ; 
And  one  may  tread  the  dewy  grass, 

And  one  the  marble  floor, 
Nor  half-hid  bosom  heave  the  less, 

Nor  broidered  corset  more  ! 

"Some  years  ago,  a  dark-eyed  girl, 

Was  sitting  in  the  shade,  — 
There's  something  brings  her  to  my  mind 

In  that  young  dreaming  maid,  — 
And  in  her  hand  she  held  a  flower, 

A  flower  whose  speaking  hue 
Said,  in  the  language  of  the  heart, 

Believe  the  cciver  true. 


294  ILLUSTU.VTION   OF    A    PICTURE. 

"  And  as  she  looked  upon  its  leaves, 

Tlie  maiden  made  a  vow 
To  wear  it  when  the  bridal  wreath 

Was  woven  for  her  brow  ; 
She  watched  the  flower,  as,  day  by  day. 

The  leaflets  curled  and  died  ; 
But  he  who  gave  it  never  came 

To  claim  her  for  his  bride. 

"  O,  many  a  summer's  morning  glow 

Has  lent  the  rose  its  i"ay. 
And  many  a  winter's  drifting  snow 

Has  swept  its  bloom  away; 
But  sne  has  kept  that  faithless  pledge 

To  this  her  winter  hour. 
And  keeps  it  still,  herself  alone, 

And  wasted  like  the  flower." 

Her  pale  lip  quivered,  and  the  light 

Gleamed  in  her  moistening  eyes. 
I  asked  her  how  she  liked  the  tints 

In  those  Castilian  skies : 
"  She  thought  them  misty —  'twas  perhaps 

Because  she  stood  too  near." 
She  turned  away,  and  as  she  turned, 

I  saw  her  wipe  a  tear. 


-^A.3^^<m^^- 


THE   DIVER. 


295 


J/Lrs,   Hemans 


IIOU  hast  been  where  the  rocks  of  coral  grow; 

Thou  hast  fought  with  eddying  waves  • 
Tliy  cheek  is  pale  and  thy  heart  beats  low, 
^ — (5)       Thou  searcher  of  ocean  s  caves. 

Thou  hast  looked  on  the  gleaming  wealth  of  old 
And  wrecks  wliere  the  brave  have  stiiven; 

The  deep  is  a  strong  and  fearful  hold, 
But  thou  its  bar  hast  riven! 

A  wild  and  weary  life  is  thine, 

A  wasting  task  and  lone, 
Though  treasure-grots  for  thee  may  shine        * 

To  all  beside  unknown. 

A  weary  life;  but  a  swift  decay 

Soon,  soon  shall  set  thee  free; 
Thou'rt  passing  fast  from  thy  toils  awajj 

Thou  wrestler  with  the  sea! 

In  thy  dim  eye,  on  thy  hollow  cheek. 

Well  are  the  death-signs  read  — 
Go!  for  the  pearl  in  its  cavern  seek. 

Ere  hope  and  power  be  fled. 

And  bright  in  beauty's  coronal 

That  glistening  gem  shall  be, 
A  star  to  all  in  the  festive  hall ; 

But  who  will  think  on  thee? 


296  THE   DIVER. 


None ;  as  it  gleams  from  the  queen-like  head, 

Not  one  'midst  throngs  will  say, 
"  A  life  hath  been  like  a  rain-drop  shed 

For  that  pale,  quivering  ray." 

Woe  for  the  wealth  thus  dearly  bought! 

And  are  not  those  like  tliee, 
Who  win  for  earth  the  gems  of  thought? 

O  wrestler  with  the  sea! 

Down  to  the  gulfs  of  the  soul  they  go. 
Where  the  passion-fountains  burn. 

Gathering  the  jewels  far  below 
From  many  a  buried  urn ;  — 

Wringing  from  lava  veins  the  fire 
That  o'er  bright  words  is  poured ; 

Learning  deep  sounds,  to  make  the  lyre 
A  spirit  in  each  chord. 

But  O,  tiie  i)rice  of  bitter  teai's. 

Paid  for  the  lonely  power 
That  throws  at  last  o'er  desert  years 

A  darkly  glorious  dower! 

Like  flower  seeds,  by  the  wild  wind  spread. 
So  radiant  thoughts  are  strewed  ; 

The  soul  wlience  those  high  gifts  are  shed 
May  faint  in  solitude. 

And  who  will  think,  wlien  the  strain  is  sung 
Till  a  thousand  hearts  are  stiiTed, 


THROUGH  THE  DARKNESS.  297 


What  life-drops,  from  the  minstrel  Avrung, 
Have  gushed  with  every  word? 

None,  none !  his  treasiii-es  live  like  thine  ; 

He  strives  and  dies  like  thee; 
Thou,  that  hast  been  to  the  iDearl's  dark  shrine, 

O  wrestler  with  the  sea ! 


Willianh   Winter, 
— **^j^j^— 

F  the  road  grow  dark  before  you  reach 

The  home  where  your  true  love  waits  for  you, 
Will  you  linger  within  the  light,  and  preach 
Of  the  dangers  you  may  perchance  go  through? 
Or  will  you  go  on  as  you  ought  to  do? 
You  will  go;    you  will  care  not  for  darkness  and 
storm. 
For  her  dear  love  will  shield  you  and  keep  you  warm. 

What  sort  of  a  life,  I  would  like  to  know. 

Will  any  man  lead  that  does  not  love? 
The  frozen  ground  is  cold  below. 

And  the  freezing  stars  are  bright  above ; 
But  let  him  lie  under  the  frozen  mould ! 
For  his  heart  and  the  stars  and  the  earth  are  cold! 


298  LIFE   AND    DEATH. 


The  night  comes  down  with  an  angry  frown. 
And  the  fierce  wind  sin-ills  on  the  lonely  moor: 

Look  back  —  to  the  lights  in  the  distant  town! 
Look  on  —  to  the  dri^ary  Avaste  before ! 
What  waits  for  you  when  the  journey's  o'er? 

She  will  give  you  a  sweet,  sweet  kiss,  you  know : 

Let  the  darkness  come  and  the  fierce  wind  blow! 

In  the  path  of  duty  grows  many  a  thorn, 
And  bleak  is  the  scorn  of  a  selfish  world  ; 

But  there  never  was  night  without  its  morn. 
And  after  the  tempest  the  clouds  are  furled; 

For  over  all  spreadeth  the  bright  blue  sky. 

And  we  trust  in  our  God,  who  is  always  nigh! 


— >0^'^S£f^f!&€M — 


Life  and  B(gat!6e 

^en  Jonson. 


HE  ports  of  death  are  sins;  of  life,  good  deeds; 
Through  which  our  merit  leads  us  to  our  meeds. 
How  wilful  blind  is  he,  then,  that  would  stray, 
And  hath  it  in  his  powei-s  to  make  his  way. 
This  world  death's  region  is;  the  other,  life's; 
And  here,  it  should  be  one  of  our  first  strifes 
So  to  front  death  as  men  might  judge  us  past  it ; 
For  good  men  but  see  death,  the  wicked  taste  it. 


THE   COUNTKY    LASSIE.  299 


s@i£0itrj  LassiSe 


HE  blossomed  in  the  country. 

Where  sunny  summers  fling 
Their  rosy  arms  about  the  earth, 

And  brightest  blessings  bring; 
Health  was  her  sole  inheritance. 

And  grace  her  only  dower ; 
I  never  dreamed  the  wildwood 

Contained  so  sweet  a  flower. 

Far  distant  from  the  city, 

And  inland  fi'om  the  sea. 
My  lassie  bloomed  in  goodness. 

As  pure  as  pure  could  be ; 
She  caught  her  dewy  freshness 

From  hill  and  mountain  bower ; 
I  never  dreamed  the  wildwood 

Contained  so  sweet  a  flower. 

The  rainbow  must  have  lent  her 

Some  of  its  airy  grace. 
The  wild  rose  parted  with  a  blusL 

That  nestled  on  her  face  ; 
The  sunbeam  got  entangled  in 

The  long  waves  of  her  hair. 
For  she  Iiad  grown  to  be 

So  modest  and  so  fair. 


finon. 


300 


THE    BREEZE   IN   THE   CHURCH. 


The  early  birds  had  taught  her 

Then*  joyous  matin  song, 
And  some  of  their  soft  innocence, 

Slie's  been  with  tliein  so  long ; 
And  for  her  now,  if  need  be, 

I'd  part  with  wealth  and  power; 
I  never  dreamed  the  wildwood 

Contained  so  sweet  a  flower. 


Jliss  Hinxham, 


WAS  a  sunny  day,  and  the  morning  psalm 

We  sung  in  the  church  together ; 
We  felt  in  our  hearts  the  joy  and  calm 

Of  the  calm  and  joyous  weather. 

The  slow,  and  sweet,  and  sacred  strain, 

Through  every  bosom  stealing, 
Checked  every  thought  that  was  light  and  vain, 

And  waked  each  holy  feeling. 

We  knew  by  its  simny  gleam  how  clear 

Was  the  blue  sky  smiling  o'er  us. 
And  in  every  pause  of  the  hymn  could  hear 

The  wild  birds'  happy  chorus. 

And  lo!  from  its  haunts  by  cave  or  rill. 
With  a  sudden  start  awaking, 


THE   BREEZE   IN   THE   CHURCH.  301 

A  breeze  came  fluttei-ing  down  the  hill, 
Its  fragrant  pinions  shaking. 

Through  the  open  windows  it  bent  its  way. 

And  down  the  ciiancel  centre, 
Like  a  privileged  thing  that  at  will  might  stray, 

And  in  holy  places  enter. 

From  niche  to  niche,  from  nook  to  nook. 

With  a  lightsome  rustle  flying. 
It  lifted  the  leaves  of  the  Holy  Book, 

On  the  altar  cushion  lying. 

It  fanned  the  old  clerk's  hoary  hair. 
And  the  children's  bright  young  faces; 

Then  vanished,  none  knew  how  or  where. 
Leaving  its  pleasant  traces. 

It  left  sweet  thoughts  of  summer  hours 

Spent  on  the  quiet  mountains ; 
And  the  church  seemed  full  of  the  scent  of  flowers. 

And  the  trickling  fall  of  fountains. 

The  image  of  scenes  so  still  and  fair 

"With  our  music  sweetly  blended, 
While  it  seemed  their  whispered  hymn  took  share 

In  the  praise  that  to  Heaven  ascended. 

We  thought  of  Him  who  had  poured  the  rills 
And  through  tlie  green  mountains  led  them  ; 

Whose  hand,  when  he  piled  the  enduring  hills, 
With  a  mantle  of  beauty  spread  them. 


302 


ODE   ON   AKT. 


And  a  purer  passion  was  borne  above, 
In  a  louder  anthem  swelling, 

As  we  bowed  to  the  visible  spirit  of  lovo 
On  those  calm  summits  dwelling. 


cs=s^5Jef^^=Sv- 


Spragxte. 


f1  HEN  from  the  sacred  garden  driven, 
^     Man  fled  before  his  Maker's  wrath. 
An  angel  left  her  place  in  heaven. 

And  crossed  the  wanderer's  sunless  path. 
'Tw.as  Art,  sweet  Art!  new  radiance  broke. 
When  her  light  foot  flew  o'er  the  ground. 
And  thus  with  sei'aph  voice  she  spoke: 
"  The  curse  a  blessing  sliall  be  found." 

Slie  led  liini  through  the  trackless  wild. 

Whore  noontide  sun  had  never  blazed; 
The  thistle  shrunk,  tlie  liarvest  smiled. 

And  Nature  gladdened  as  slie  gazed. 
Earth's  thousand  tribes  of  living  things. 

At  Art's  command,  to  him  are  given; 
The  village  grows,  the  city  springs. 

And  point  their  spires  of  faith  to  heaven. 

He  sends  the  oak,  and  bids  it  ride 

To  guard  the  shores  its  beauty  graced; 

He  smites  the  rock  —  ujjheaved  in  pride, 
See  towers  of  strength  and  domes  of  taste. 


I  REMEMBER,  I  REMEMBER.  303 


Earth's  teeming  caves  their  wealth  reveal; 

Fire  bears  his  banner  on  the  wave, 
He  bids  tho  mortal  poison  heal, 

And  leaps  triumphant  o'er  the  grave. 

In  fields  of  air  he  writes  his  name, 

And  treads  the  chambers  of  the  sky ; 
He  reads  the  stars,  and  grasps  the  flame 

That  quivers  round  the  throne  on  high  ; 
In  war  renowned,  in  peace  sublime, 

He  moves  in  greatness  and  in  grace; 
His  power,  subduing  space  and  time. 

Links  realm  to  realm,  and  race  to  I'ace. 

^ 


I  EiM©Mlir,  I  EimemBef . 


REMEMBER,  I  remember. 

The  house  where  I  was  born, 
The  little  window  where  the  sun 

Came  peeping  in  at  morn ; 
He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon, 

Nor  brought  too  long  a  day ; 
But  now,  I  often  wish  the  night 

Had  borne  my  breath  away. 

I  remember,  I  remember. 
The  roses  —  red  and  white ; 

The  violets  and  the  lily-cup, 
Those  flowers  made  of  light! 


Hood. 


)04  SENSIBILITY. 


The  lilacs  where  the  rolnn  built, 

And  where  my  brotlier  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birthday,  — 

The  tree  is  living  yet! 

I  remember,  I  remember. 

Where  I  was  used  to  swing, 
And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 

To  swallows  on  the  wing; 
My  spirit  tiew  in  feathers  then. 

That  is  so  heavy  now. 
And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 

The  fever  on  my  brow. 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

The  fir-trees  dai'k  and  high; 
I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 

Were  close  against  tlie  sky; 
It  was  a  childish  ignorance; 

But  now  'tis  little  joy 
To  know  I'm  farther  off  from  heaven 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 


I^og-ers. 


IIE  soul  of  music  slumbers  in  the  sliell, 
^JJ/Till  wak(!d  and  kindled  by  the  master's  spell; 

And  feeling  iiearts  —  touch  them  but  lightly  —  poui 
A  thousand  melodies  unheard  before. 


THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW  YEAR.         305 


Tie  ©M  ami  tie  M%w  Year. 


finorh. 


-e-cs>s^s-^- 


HE  old  year  is  passing  away,  Maud, 
5     The  old  year  is  breathing  its  last ; 
Its  days  are  nearlj^  numbered,  Maud, 
And  soon  it  will  l)e  with  the  past. 

The  old  year  has  watched  our  smiles,  Maud, 

The  old  year  has  seen  our  tears. 
And  now  she  is  gasping  and  dying,  Maud, 

Whilst  we  greet  the  happy  new  year. 

How  many  days  have  been  sad,  Maud, 

How  many  days  have  been  gay, 
Since  the  coming  in  of  the  old  year, 

To  the  birth  of  this  new  year's  day  ! 

There  are  many  who  were  happy  and  gay,  Maud, 

When  the  last  new  year  came  in. 
Who  are  sleeping  below  the  frozen  turf, 

Away  from  all  sorrow  and  sin. 

Their  voices  no  more  will  be  heard,  Maud, 

As  they  Joined  us  in  many  a  song; 
But  they  are  up  in  the  skies  awaiting  us,  Maud, 

To  join  in  that  happy  throng. 

The  old  year  has  looked  on  our  good  deeds,  Maud, 

The  old  3'ear  has  watched  our  sins. 
And  can  not  we  improve  on  the  past  life? 

Let  us  try  when  the  new  year  comes  in. 


306 


lov?:d  you  better  than  you  knew. 


^fit.lantia  J/Tonthly, 


T  w;is  the  autumn  of  the  year; 

The  strawberiy  leaves  were  red  ami  sei'e; 

October's  airs  were  fresh  and  chill, 

When,  pausing  on  the  windy  hill, 

The  hill  tliat  overlooks  the  sea, 

You  talked  confidingly  to  me,  — 

Me,  whom  your  keen,  artistic  sight 

Has  not  yet  learned  to  read  aright. 

Since  I  have  veiled  my  heart  from  you. 

And  loved  you  better  than  you  knew. 

You  told  me  of  your  toilsome  past. 

The  tardy  lionors  won  at  last. 

The  trials  borne,  the  conquests  gained, 

The  longed-for  boon  of  fame  attained; 

I  knew  that  every  victory 

But  lifted  you  away  from  me  — 

That  every  step  of  high  emprise 

But  left  me  lowlier  in  your  eyes;' 

I  watched  the  distance  as  it  grew. 

And  loved  you  better  than  you  knew. 

You  did  not  see  the  bitter  ti*ace 
Of  anguish  sweej)  across  my  face ; 
You  did  not  hear  my  proud  heart  bow. 
Heavy  and  slow  beneath  your  feet ; 


l.OVED   YOU    HETTr:K  THAN    YOU   KNEW.  301 


You  thought  of  triumphs  still  unwon. 
Of  glorious  deeds  as  yet  undone; 
And  I,  the  while  you  talked  to  me, 
I  watched  tlie  gulls  float  lonesomely, 
Till  lost  amid  the  liungry  blue. 
And  loved  you  better  than  you  knew. 

You  walk  the  sunny  side  of  fate ; 
The  wise  world  smiles  and  calls  you  great; 
The  golden  fruitage  of  success 
Drops  at  your  feet  in  plenteousness. 
And  you  have  blessings  manifold  — 
Renown,  and  power,  and  friends,  and  gold  i 
They  build  a  wall  between  us  twain. 
Which  may  not  be  thrown  down  again ; 
Alas !  for  I,  the  long  years  through. 
Have  loved  you  better  than  you  knew. 

Your  life's  proud  aim,  your  art's  high  truth 
Have  kept  the  promise  of  your  youth ; 
And  while  you  won  the  crown  which  now 
Breaks  into  bloom  upon  your  brow. 
My  soul  cried  strongly  out  to  you. 
Across  the  ocean's  yearning  blue, 
While,  unremembered  and  afixr, 
I  watched  you  as  I  watch  a  star 
Through  darkness  struggling  into  view 
And  loved  you  better  than  you  knew. 

I  used  to  dream,  in  all  these  years, 
Of  patient  faith  and  silent  tears,  — 


308 


TIME    AND    ITS    CHANGES. 


That  Love's  strong  hand  would  put  aside 
The  barriers  of  place  and  pride,  — 
Would  lead  the  pathless  darkness  through, 
And  draw  me  softly  up  to  you  ; 
But  that  is  past;  if  you  should  stray 
Beside  my  grave  some  future  day, 
Perchance  the  violets  o'er  my  dust. 
Will  half  betray  their  buried  trust, 
And  say,  their  blue  eyes  full  of  dew, 
"  She  loved  you  better  than  you  knew." 


^ailey. 


HERE  is  no  charm  in  time,  as  time,  nor  good  ; 

YO  The  long  days  are  no  happier  than  the  short  ones. 

'^  'Tis  some  time  now  since  I  was  here.     We  leave 

Our  home  in  youth,  no  matter  to  what  end  ; 

Study,  or  strife,  or  pleasure,  or  what  not ; 

And  coming  back  in  few  short  years,  we  find 

All  as  we  left  it,  outside  ;  the  old  elms, 
The  house,  grass,  gates,  and  latchet's  selfsame  click  ; 
But  lift  that  latchet  —  all  is  changed  as  doom  : 
The  servants  have  forgotten  our  step,  and  more 
Than  half  of  those  who  knew  us,  know  us  not. 
Adversity,  prosperity,  the  grave. 
Play  a  round  game  with  friends.    On  some  the  world 
Hath  shut  its  evil  eye,  and  they  are  passed 


THE   TOAST.  30S 


From  honor  and  remembrance,  and  a  stare 
Is  all  the  mention  of  their  names  receives; 
And  people  know  no  more  of  them  than  of 
The  shapes  of  clouds  at  midnight,  a  year  back. 


Scot 

HE  feast  is  o'er!     Now  brimming  wine 
In  lordly  cnp  is  seen  to  shine 

Before  each  eager  guest; 
And  silence  fills  the  crowded  hall, 
As  deep  as  when  the  herald's  call 

Thrills  in  the  royal  breast. 

Then  up  arose  the  noble  host, 

And  smiling  cried,  "A  toast,  a  toast, 

To  all  our  ladyes  fair. 
Here,  befoi-e  all,  I  pledge  the  name 
Of  Staunton's  proud  and  beauteous  dame, 

The  Ladye  Gundamere." 

Then  to  his  feet  each  gallant  sprung, 
And  joyous  was  the  shout  that  rung 

As  Stanley  gave  the  word  : 
And  every  cup  was  raised  on  high. 
Nor  ceased  the  loud  and  gladsome  cry. 

Till  Stanley's  voice  was  heard. 


310  THE  TOAST. 


"Enough,  enough,"  he  smiling  said, 
And  lowly  bent  his  haughty  head ; 

"  That  all  may  have  theii-  due, 
Now  each  in  turn  must  play  his  jDart, 
And  pledge  the  ladye  of  his  heart, 

Like  gallant  knight  and  true." 

Then  one  by  one  each  guest  sprung  up, 
And  drained  in  turn  the  brimming  cup, 

And  named  the  loved  one's  name ; 
And  each,  as  hand  on  high  he  raised, 
His  ladye's  grace  or  beauty  praised. 

Her  constancy  and  fame. 

'Tis  now  St.  Leon's  turn  to  rise; 

On  him  are  fixed  those  countless  eyes ; 

A  gallant  knight  is  he  ; 
Envied  by  some,  admired  by  all, 
Far-famed  in  ladye's  bower  and  hall, 

The  flower  of  chivalry. 

St.  Leon  raised  his  kindling  eye. 
And  lifts  the  sparkling  cup  on  high: 

"  I  drink  to  one,"  ho  said, 
*♦  Whose  image  never  may  depart. 
Deep  graven  on  this  gi'ateful  heai't, 

Till  memory  be  dead. 

"  To  one  whose  love  for  me  shall  last 
When  lighter  passions  long  have  passed^ 
So  holy  'tis  and  true; 


311 


To  one  whose  love  hath  longer  dwelt, 

More  deeply  fixed,  more  keenly  felt, 

Than  any  pledged  by  you." 

Each  gnest  upstarted  at  the  word, 
And  laid  a  hand  upon  his  sword, 

With  fury-flashing  eye; 
And  Stanley  said,  "  We  crave  the  name, 
Proud  knight,  of  this  most  peerless  dame, 

Whose  love  you  count  so  high." 

St.  Leon  paused,  as  if  he  would 

Not  breathe  her  name  in  careless  mood, 

Thus  lightly  to  anotlier  ; 
Then  bent  his  noble  head,  as  though 
To  give  that  word  the  reverence  due, 

And  gently  said,  "My  Mother!  '^y 


Young: 


HE  bell  strikes  one  ;  we  take  no  note  of  time, 
^yjp  But  from  its  loss.     To  give  it,  then,  a  tongue 
Is  wise  in  man.     As  if  an  angel  spoke, 
I  feel  the  solemn  sound.     If  heard  aright, 
It  is  the  knell  of  mj'  departed  hours. 
Where  are  they?    With  the  years  l^eyond  the  flood 
It  is  the  signal  tliat  demands  despatch; 
How  much  is  to  be  done! 


312  THE  heart's  fine  gold. 


W.  O.  goume 

SAW  a  little  girl 

That  shivered  by  my  side, 
And  the  spai'kling  snow,  with  a  whiflFand  a  whirl, 
Wove  a  frosty  wreath  in  her  hanging  curl, 

As  she  pushed  her  hair  aside. 

I  saw  her  tearful  eye. 

That  spoke  in  tender  power. 
And  the  throbbing  heart,  with  a  throe  and  a  sigh, 
Were  the  speaking  tongue,  that  assured  me  why 
She  came  in  that  chilly  hour. 

I  asked  what  brought  her  there  : 

In  accents  low  and  sad, 
She  asked  for  some  food,  for  crust  was  the  fare, 
Of  mother  and  babe,  'mid  the  heart's  despair ; 

In  rags  they  were  thinly  clad. 

Her  father  with  the  dead 

Had  gone  to  take  his  rest ; 
He  had  struggled  long  with  the  toil  and  dread 
Of  the  life  in  which  the  laborers  tread, 

And  had  always  done  his  best. 

Her  simple  tale  I  heard. 

Nor  did  she  speak  in  vain  ; 
For  the  prayerful  tone,  and  the  sigh,  and  the  word 
Of  the  pale,  thin  lips,  all  my  pity  stirred, 

As  she  spoke  iu  tears  again. 


THE  OLD  folks'  ROOM.  313 

Her  wants  I  well  supplied 

With  such  as  I  could  spare, 
And  the  poor  girl  wept  in  her  soul's  grateful  tide, 
For  her  heart  was  full,  and  she  vainly  tried 

To  utter  its  promptings  there. 

My  heart  grew  rich  that  day, 

My  soul  more  noble  grew. 
For  her  tears  that  fell  were  pearls  in  the  ray 
Of  the  great  love  sun  that  shall  chase  away 

The  night  and  its  gloom-born  dew. 

I  would  that  I  could  spend 

My  life  in  joys  like  this  ; 
I  would  gather  gems,  and  the  gold  with  them  blend 
Of  a  thousand  hearts,  till  my  life  should  end 

In  a  heaven  of  love's  pure  bliss. 


s'  m 

JhlQTh. 


HE  old  man  sat  by  the  chimney  side  ; 

His  face  was  wrinkled  and  wan  ; 
And  he  leaned  both  hands  on  his  stout  oak  cane, 

As  if  all  work  were  done. 

His  coat  was  of  good  old-fashioned  gray ; 
The  pockets  were  deep  and  wide, 


314  THE  OLD  folks'  ROOM. 

Where  his  "  specs  "  and  his  steel  tobacco  box 
Lay  snngly  side  by  side. 

The  old  man  liked  to  stir  the  fire, 
So  near  him  the  tongs  were  kept; 

Sometimes  he  mused  as  he  gazed  at  the  coals. 
Sometimes  he  sat  and  wept. 

What  saw  he  in  the  embers  there? 

Ah !  pictures  of  other  years ; 
And  now  and  then  they  wakened  smiles. 

But  oftener  started  tears. 

His  good  wife  sat  on  the  other  side, 
In  a  high-back,  flag-seat  chair; 

I  see  'neath  the  pile  of  her  muslin  cap 
The  sheen  of  her  silveiy  hair. 

There's  a  happy  look  on  her  aged  face, 

As  she  busily  knits  for  him, 
And  Nillie  takes  up  the  stitches  dropped, 

For  grandmother's  eyes  are  dim. 

Their  children  come  and  read  the  news 

To  pass  the  time,  each  day; 
How  it  stirs  the  blood  in  an  old  man's  heart 

To  hear  of  the  world  away ! 

'Tis  a  homely  scene,  — I  told  you  so, — 

But  i^leasant  it  is  to  view; 
At  least  I  thought  it  so  myself, 

And  sketched  it  do"/n  for  you. 

Be  kind  unto  the  old,  my  friend; 

They're  worn  with  this  world's  strife. 


ELEGY  —  AVRITTEN   IN   SPRING.  315 


Thongli  bravely  once  perchance  they  fought 
The  stern,  fierce  battle  of  life. 

They  taught  our  youthful  feet  to  climb 

Upward  life's  rugged  steep ; 
Then  let  us  lead  them  gently  down 

To  where  tlie  weary  sleep. 


Jdiohael  ^riice. 


IS  past :  the  iron  North  has  spent  his  rage ; 

Stern  Winter  now  resigns  the  lengthening  day, 
The  stormy  bowlings  of  the  winds  assuage, 

And  warm  o'er  ether  western  breezes  play. 

Of  genial  heat  and  cheerful  light  the  source, 
From  summer  climes,  beneath  another  sky, 

The  sun,  returning,  wheels  his  golden  course : 
Before  his  beams  all  noxious  vapors  fly. 

Far  to  the  north  grim  Winter  draws  his  train, 
To  his  own  clime,  to  Zembla's  frozen  shoi'e; 

Where,  throned  on  ice,  he  holds  eternal  reign ; 

Where  whirlwinds  madden,  and  where  tempests  I'oar. 

Loosed  from  the  bands  of  frost,  the  verdant  ground 
Again  puts  on  her  robe  of  cheerful  green. 

Again  puts  forth  her  flowers ;  and  all  around 
Smiling,  the  cheerful  face  of  Spring  is  seen. 


316 


THE   RIVEU   PATH. 


Beliold!  the  trees  new  deck  their  withered  boughs; 

Tlieir  amijle  leaves,  the  hospitable  plane, 
The  taper  elm,  and  lofty  ash  disclose; 

The  bloomine:  hawthorn  varieg-ates  the  sceno. 


The  lily  of  the  vale,  of  flowers  the  queen, 
Puts  on  the  robe  she  neither  sewed  nor  spun; 

The  birds  on  ground,  or  on  the  branches  green, 
Hop  to  and  fro,  and  glitter  in  the  sun. 

Soon  as  o'er  eastern  hills  the  morning  peers. 
From  her  low  nest  the  tufted  lark  upsprings; 

And,  cheerful  singing,  up  the  air  she  steers ; 
Still  high  she  mounts,  still  loud  and  sweet  she  sings. 

Now  is  the  time  for  those  who  wisdom  love. 
Who  love  to  walk  in  virtue's  flowery  road, 

Along  the  lovely  paths  of  Spring  to  rove. 
And  follow  Nature  up  to  Nature's  God. 

•t:?^^!-' 


Whittier 


Z^  O  bird-song  floated  down  the  hill  ; 
The  tangled  bank  below  was  still ; 


^;^5^V/  No  rustle  from  the  birchen  stem, 
No  ripple  fi"om  the  water's  hem. 

The  dusk  of  twilight  round  us  grew; 
We  felt  the  falling  of  the  dew. 


THE   UIVEU   PATH.  3]' 


For  from  as,  ere  the  day  was  done, 
The  wooded  hills  sliut  out  the  sun. 

But  on  the  river's  fiirthor  side 
We  saw  the  hill  tops  glorified. 
A  tender  glow,  exceeding  fair, 
A  dream  of  day,  without  its  glare. 

With  us  the  damp,  the  chill,  the  gloom ; 
With  them  the  sunset's  rosy  bloom  ; 

While  dark,  through  willowy  vistas  seen. 
The  river  rolled  in  shade  between. 

From  out  the  darkness  where  we  trod 
We  gazed  upon  those  hills  of  God, 

Whose  light  seemed  not  of  moon  or  sun  ; 
We  spake  not,  but  our  thought  was  one. 

We  paused,  as  if  from  that  bright  shore 
Beckoned  our  dear  ones  gone  before ; 

And  still  our  beating  hearts  to  hear 
The  voices  lost  to  mortal  ear! 

Sudden  our  pathway  turned  from  night ; 
The  hills  swung  open  to  the  light ; 

Through  their  green  gates  the  sunshine  showed 
A.  long  slant  splendor  downward  flowed. 

Down  glade  and  glen  and  bank  it  rolled ; 
It  bridged  the  shady  stream  with  gold ; 

And,  borne  on  piers  of  mist,  allied 
The  shadowy  with  the  sunlit  side! 

"  So,"  pr.'xyed  we,  "  when  our  feet  draw  near 
The  river,  dark  with  mortal  fear, 


818  THE   BANQUET. 


"  And  the  night  cometh  chill  with  dew, 
O  Father!  let  thy  light  break  through! 

"  So  let  the  hills  of  doubt  divide, 
So  bridge  with  faith  the  sunless  tide! 

"  So  let  the  eyes  that  fail  on  earth 
On  thy  eternal  hills  look  forth! 

"  And  in  thy  beckoning  angels  know 
The  dear  ones  whom  we  loved  below.''' 

— H^^^SE%©<H — 


*i^5~' 


Landoa. 


HERE  was  a  feast  that  night, 

And  colored  lamps  sent  forth  their  odoi'ous  light 

Over  gold  carving,  and  the  pui-ple  fall 

Of  tapestry ;  and  around  each  stately  hall 

9  Were  statues  pale,  and  delicate,  and  fair. 
As  all  of  Beauty,  save  her  blush,  were  there; 
And,  like  light  clouds,  floating  around  each  room 

The  censers  sent  their  breathings  of  perfume; 

And  scented  waters  mingled  with  the  breath 

Of  flowers  that  died  as  they  rejoiced  in  death ; 

The  tulip,  with  its  globe  of  rainbow  light ; 

The  red  rose,  as  it  languished  with  delight ; 

The  bride-like  hyacinth,  drooping  as  with  shame ; 

And  the  anemone,  whose  cheek  of  flame 


TIME,    IlOrE,    AND   MEMORY.  319 

Is  golden,  as  it  were  the  flower  of  sun, 

In  his  noon  liour,  most  loved  to  look  upon. 

At  first,  the  pillared  halls  were  still  and  lone, 

As  if  some  fairy  palace,  all  unknown 

To  mortal  eye  or  step.     This  was  not  long. 

Wakened  the  lutes,  and  rose  the  sound  of  song; 

And  the  wide  mirrors  glittered  with  the  crowd 

Of  changing  shapes ;  the  young,  the  fair,  the  proud, 

Came  thronging  in. 

M5^ — 


Hood. 


HEARD  a  gentle  maiden,  in  the  spring. 
Set  her  sweet  sighs  to  music,  and  thus  sing:    ' 
"  Fly  through  the  world,  and  I  will  follow  thee 
Only  for  looks  that  may  titrn  back  on  me. 

"Only  for  roses  that  your  chance  may  throw. 
Though  withered  I  will  wear  them  on  my  brow, 
To  be  a  thoughtful  fragrance  to  my  brain. 
Warmed  with  such  love  that  they  will  bloom  again. 

"Thy  love  before  thee,  I  must  tread  behind. 
Kissing  thy  footprints,  thougli  to  me  unkind; 
But  trust  not  all  her  fondness  though  it  seem. 
Lest  thy  true  love  should  rest  on  a  false  dream. 

"  Her  face  is  smiling,  and  her  voice  is  sweet; 
But  smiles  betray,  and  music  sings  deceit : 


^20 


MTTLE  KOSE. 


And  wor<ls  si:)eak  false,  yet,  if  tliey  welcome  prove, 
I'll  be  their  echo,  and  repeat  their  love. 

"  Only  if  wakened  to  sad  truth  at  last, 
The  bitterness  to  come,  and  sweetness  past, 
When  thou  art  vexed,  then  turn  again,  and  see 
Thou  hast  loved  Hope,  but  Memory  loved  thee." 


Blackwood's  J^ag 


riE  comes  with  fairy  footsteps; 

Softly  their  echoes  fall ; 
And  her  shadow  plays,  like  a  summer  shade. 

Across  the  garden  wall, 
riie  golden  light  is  dancing  bright 

']Mid  the  mazes  of  her  hair. 
And  her  fair  young  locks  are  waving  free 

To  the  wooins:  of  the  air. 


Like  a  sportive  fawn  she  boundeth 

So  gleefully  along ; 
As  a  wild  young  bird  she  cai-oleth 

The  burden  of  a  song. 
The  summer  birds  are  clustex-ing  thick 

Around  her  dancing  feet, 
And  on  her  check  the  clustering  breeze 

1h  breaking  soft  and  sweet. 


LITTLE   HOSE.  321 


The  very  sunbeams  seem  to  linger 

Above  that  holy  head, 
And  the  wild  flowers  at  her  coming 

Their  richest  fragrance  shed. 
And  O,  how  lovely  light  and  fragrance 

Mingle  m  the  life  within! 
O,  how  fondly  do  they  nestle 

Round  the  soul  that  knows  no  sin! 

She  comes,  the  spirit  of  our  childhood, — 

A  thing  of  mortal  birth. 
Yet  beareth  still  a  breath  of  heaven. 

To  redeem  her  from  the  earth. 
She  comes  in  bright-robed  innocence, 

Unsoiled  by  blot  or  blight. 
And  passeth  by  our  wayward  path 

A  gleam  of  angel  light. 

O,  blessed  things  are  children! 

The  gifts  of  heavenly  love; 
They  stand  betwixt  our  heavenly  hearts 

And  better  things  above. 
They  link  us  with  the  spirit  world 

By  purity  and  truth. 
And  keep  our  hearts  still  fresh  and  young 

With  the  presence  of  their  youth. 


-0  0:>€£6^€:?"^ 


922 


O.  W.  Holmes. 


HERE  breathes  no  being  but  has  some  pretence 
To  that  fine  instinct  called  poetic,  sense  ; 
The  rudest  savage  roaming  through  the  wild, 
The  simplest  rustic,  bending  o'er  his  child, 
The  infant  listening  to  the  warbling  bird. 
The  mother  smiling  at  its  half- formed  word  ; 
The  boy  uncaged,  who  tracks  the  fields  at  large, 
The  girl  turned  matron  to  her  babe-like  charge  ; 
The  freeman  casting  with  unpurchased  hand 
The  vote  that  shakes  the  tun-ets  of  the  land ; 
The  slave,  who,  slumbering  on  his  rusted  chain. 
Dreams  of  the  palm-trees  on  his  burning  plain ; 
The  hot-cheeked  reveller,  tossing  down  the  wine, 
To  join  the  chorus  "  Auld  lang  syne  ;  " 
The  gentle  maid,  whose  azure  eye  grows  dim, 
"While  Heaven  is  listening  to  her  evening  h}Tnn ; 
The  jewelled  beauty,  when  her  steps  draw  near 
The  circling  dance  and  dazzling  chandelier  ; 
E'en  trembling  age,  when  spring's  renewing  air 
Waves  the  thin  ringlets  of  his  silvered  hair,  —  - 
All,  all  are  glowing  with  the  inward  flame, 
^Vho^e  wider  halo  wTeathes  the  po3c's  name, 
While,  unembalmed,  the  silent  dreamer  dies. 
His  memory  passing  with  his  smiles  and  sighs. 
If  glorious  visions,  born  for  all  mankind. 
The  bright  auroras  of  our  twilight  mind; 


ADVICE   TO    A   RECKLESS   YOUTH.  323 

If  fancies,  varying  as  the  shapes  that  lie 
Stained  on  the  windows  of  the  sunset  sky  ; 
If  hopes,  that  btckon  with  dehisive  gleams, 
Till  the  eye  dances  in  the  void  of  dreams; 
If  passions,  following  with  the  winds  that  urge 
Earth's  wildest  wanderer  to  her  farthest  verge,  — 
If  these  on  all  some  transient  hours  bestow 
Or  rapture  tingling  with  its  hectic  glow. 
Then  all  are  poets  ;  and,  if  earth  had  rolled 
Her  myriad  centuries,  and  her  doom  were  told, 
Eacli  moaning  billow  of  her  shoreless  wave 
Would  wail  its  requiem  o'er  a  poet's  grave. 


^en  Jonson. 


[ft  11  AT  would  I  have  you  do  ?  I'll  tell  you,  kinsman : 
^ Learn  to  be  wise,  and  practise  how  to  thrive, 
i^^y^MiA  Tliat  would  I  have  you  do  ;  and  not  to  spend 
Your  coin  on  every  bauble  that  you  fancy. 
Or  every  foolish  brain  that  humors  you. 
I  would  not  have  you  to  invade  each  place, 
Nor  thrust  yourself  on  all  societies, 
Till  men's  affections  or  your  desert. 
Should  worthily  invite  you  to  your  rank. 
He  that  is  so  respectless  in  his  courses, 
Oft  sells  his  reputation  at  cheap  market. 


324  GOOD   COUNSAIL. 


Nor  would  I  you  should  melt  away  yourself 

In  flasliing  bravery,  lest,  while  you  affect 

To  make  a  blaze  of  gentry  to  the  world, 

A  little  puff  of  scorn  extinguish  it. 

And  you  be  left  like  an  unsavory  snuff, 

Whose  property  is  only  to  offend. 

I'd  ha'  you  sober,  and  contain  yourself ; 

Not  that  your  sail  be  bigger  than  your  boat; 

But  moderate  your  expenses  now  (at  first) 

As  you  may  keep  the  same  proportion  still. 

Nor  stand  so  much  on  your  gentility. 

Which  is  an  airy  and  mere  borrowed  thing. 

From  dead  men's  dust  and  bones;  and  none  of  youi-w 

Except  you  make,  or  hold  it. 

— N&®^3E^«4N 


w^u,tt,cer 


LY  fro  the  presse,  and  dwell  with  soihfas.tness:e, 
SufBse  unto  thy  good  though  it  be  small, 
For  horde  hath  hate,  and  climbing  tikclnesse, 
Prease  hath  envy,  and  wele  is  blent  over  all. 
Savour  no  more  than  thee  behove  shall, 
Rede  well  thyselfe  that  other  folk  canst  rede, 
And  trouth  thee  shall  deliver,  it  is  no  drede. 

Peine  thee  not  ech  crooked  to  redresse, 
In  trust  of  her  that  tourneth  as  a  ball ; 


FREEDOM. 


325 


Great  rest  standeth  in  little  biisinesse. 
Beware  also  to  spurne  againe  a  nail, 
Strive  not  as  doth  a  crocke  with  a  wall, 
Deme  thy  selfe  that  demest  others'  dede. 
And  trouth  thee  shall  deliver,  it  is  no  drede. 

That  thee  is  sent  receive  in  buxomnesse, 
The  wa-astling  of  this  world  asketh  a  fall, 
Here  is  no  home,  here  is  but  wiUlernesse, 
Forth,  pilgrime!  forth,  beast,  out  of  thy  stall! 
Looke  up  on  high,  and  thanke  God  of  all! 
Weive  thy  lusts,  and  let  thy  ghost  thee  lede, 
And  trouth  thee  shall  deliver,  it  is  no  drede. 


freeioM, 


John  ^arbour. 


FREDOME  is  a  nobill  thing! 
Fredonie  ranyse  man  to  haitf  likino"! 
Fredome  all  solace  to  man  giffis : 
He  levys  at  ese  that  frcly  levys! 
A  noble  hart  may  haiflf  nane  ese, 
Na  ellys  nocht  that  may  him  pi  ese, 
Gyff  fredome  fjiilythe :  for  fre  liking 
Is  yearnyt  our  all  othir  thing 
Na  he,  that  ay  hase  levyt  fre. 
May  nocht  knaw  weill  the  propyrte, 
The  angyr,  na  the  wrechyt  dome. 
That  is  cowplyt  to  foule  thyrldome. 


326  JOHN    ANDERSON,    MY    JO. 


Bot  gyff  he  had  asavit  it, 
Than  all  perquer  he  suld  it  wyt ; 
And  sauld  think  fredome  mar  to  pryse 
Than  all  the  gold  in  warld  that  is. 


— ^G^ — 


soij  M| 


i?ofceri  ^urns^ 


--t-e-<«xa<r~ 


OHN  ANDERSON,  my  jo,  John, 

When  we  were  first  acquent, 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonie  brow  was  brent; 
But  now  your  brow  is  held,  John» 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snow : 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

John  Anderson,  ray  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thcgithcr. 
And  monie  a  canty  day,  John, 

We've  had  wi'  ane  anither  ; 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

But  hand  in  hand  we'll  go. 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 


THE    I'LEASUliliS    OF    HEAVEN.  327 


^en  Jonson. 

■ — ^  HERE  all  the  happy  souls  that  ever  were, 
Shall  meet  with  gladness  in  one  theatre  ; 
And  each  shall  know  there  one  another's  face, 
By  beatific  virtue  of  the  place. 
There  shall  the  brother  with  the  sister  walk, 
And  sons  and  daughters  with  their  parents  talk  ; 
But  all  of  God  :   they  still  shall  have  to  say, 

But  make  him  all  in  all  their  theme  that  day ; 

That  happy  day  that  never  shall  see  night ! 

Where  he  will  be  all  beauty  to  the  sight ; 

Wine  or  delicious  fruits  unto  the  taste  ; 

A  music  in  the  ears  will  ever  last ; 

Unto  the  scent,  a  spicery  or  balm  ; 

And  to  the  touch,  a  flower,  like  soft  as  palm. 

He  will  all  glory,  all  perfection  be, 

God  in  the  Union  and  the  Trinity ! 

That  holy,  great,  and  glorious  mystery. 

Will  there  revealed  be  in  majesty, 

By  light  and  comfort  of  spiritual  grace  ; 

The  vision  of  our  Saviour  face  to  face, 

In  his  humanity  !  to  hear  him  preach 

The  price  of  our  redemption,  and  to  teach, 

Through  his  inherent  righteousness  in  death, 

The  safety  of  our  souls  and  forfeit  breath ! 


328  TO  BLOSSOMS. 


What  fulness  of  beatitude  is  hei-e ! 
What  love  with  mercy  mixed  doth  appear! 
To  style  us  friends,  who  were  by  nature  foes! 
Adopt  us  heirs  by  grace,  who  were  of  those 
Had  lost  ourselves;  and  prodigall}'^  spent 
Our  native  portions  and  possessed  rent! 
Yet  have  all  debts  forgiven  us;  an  advance 
By  imputed  right  to  an  inheritance 
In  his  eternal  kingdom,  wiiere  we  sit, 
Equal  with  angels,  and  co-heirs  of  it. 


T@  Blossoms, 

I^ohert  rierrick 


AIR  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree, 
Why  do  you  fall  so  fast? 
Your  date  is  not  so  past. 

But  you  may  stay  yet  here  awhile. 
To  blush  and  gently  smile, 
And  go  at  last. 

What !  were  ye  born  to  be 
An  hour  or  half's  delight. 
And  so  to  bid  good  night? 

'Tis  pity  nature  brought  yo  forth 
Merely  to  show  your  Avorth, 
And  lose  you  quite. 


VERTUE.  329 

But  you  are  lovely  leaves,  whei*e  we 
May  read  how  soon  things  have 
Their  end,  though  ne'er  so  brave : 

And  after  they  have  siiown  their  pride. 
Like  you  awhile,  they  glide 
Into  the  grave. 


G-eorge  Herbert, 


WEET  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridall  of  the  earth  and  skie : 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night. 
For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  rose,  whose  hue  angrie  and  bi*ave 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave. 

And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  spring,  full  of  sweet  dayes  and  roses, 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie, 
My  musick  shows  ye  have  your  closes 
And  all  must  die. 

Onely  a  sweet  and  vertuous  soul, 
Like  season'd  timber,  never  gives; 
Bat  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal. 
Then  chiefly  lives. 


^30  LOVE. 


Samuel  gutter 

OVE  is  too  great  a  happiness 

For  wretched  raortals  to  pos-sess ; 

For  could  it  hold  inviolate 

Against  those  cruelties  of  fate 

Which  all  felicities  below 

By  rigid  laws  are  subject  to, 

It  would  become  a  bliss  too  high 
For  perishing  mortality ; 
Translate  to  earth  the  joys  above ; 
For  nothing  goes  to  Heaven  but  Love. 
All  love  at  first,  like  generous  wine, 
Ferments  and  frets  until  'tis  fine ; 
For  when  'tis  settled  on  the  lee 
And  from  the  impnrer  matter  free, 
Becomes  the  richer  still  the  older, 
And  proves  the  pleasanter  the  colder. 
As  at  the  approach  of  winter,  all 
The  leaves  of  great  trees  use  to  fall, 
And  leave  them  naked,  to  engage 
With  storms  and  tempests  when  they  rage. 
While  huml)ler  plants  are  found  to  wear 
Their  fresh  green  liveries  all  the  year ; 
So  when  their  glorious  season 's  gone 
With  great  men,  and  hard  times  come  on. 
The  greatest  calamities  oppress 
The  greatest  still,  and  spare  the  less. 


makinek's  hymn.  331 


J£rs.   Bouthey. 


AUNCH  thy  bark,  mariner; 

Christian,  God  speed  tliee! 
Let  loose  the  rudder-bands  — 

Good  angels  lead  thee! 
Set  thy  sails  warily, 

Tempests  will  come; 
Steer  thy  course  steadily; 

Christian,  steer  home ! 

Look  to  the  weather-bow, 

Breakers  are  round  thee; 
Let  fall  the  plummet  now. 

Shallows  may  ground  thee. 
Reef  in  the  foresail  there ; 

Hold  the  helm  fast! 
So  —  let  the  vessel  wear  — 

There  swept  the  blast. 

"What  of  the  night,  watchman? 

What  of  the  night?" 
**  Cloudy  —  all  quiet  — 

No  land  yet—  all 's  right." 
Be  wakeful,  be  vigilant  — 

Danger  may  be 
At  an  hour  when  all  seemeth 

Securest  to  thee. 


332  PEACE. 


How  !  gains  the  leak  so  fast? 

Clean  out  the  hold  — 
Hoist  up  thy  merchandise, 

Heave  out  the  gold ; 
There  — let  the  ingots  go — • 

Now  the  ship  rights ; 
Hurrah!  the  harbor's  near— 

Lo!  the  red  lights! 

Slacken  not  sail  yet 

At  inlet  or  island ; 
Straight  for  the  beacon  steer, 

Straight  for  the  high  land. 
Crowd  all  thy  canvas  on. 

Cut  through  the  foam  — 
Christian !  cast  anchor  now  — 

Heaven  is  thy  home ! 


»t«'^s€>*^ 


George  JSerbeH. 


WEET  Peace,  where  dost  thou  dwell?     I  humbly 
ci'ave, 
Let  me  once  know. 
I  sought  thee  in  a  secret  cave. 
And  aslv'd.  if  Peace  were  there. 
A  hollow  winde  did  seem  to  answer,  No; 
Go  seek  elsewhere. 


PEACE.  333 

I  did ;  and  going  did  a  rainbow  note : 
Surely,  tliouglit  I, 
This  is  tliL  lace  of  Peace's  coat: 
I  will  search  out  the  matter. 
But  while  I  lookt  the  clouds  immediately 
Did  break  and  scatter. 

Then  went  I  to  a  garden  and  did  spy 
A  gallant  flower, 
The  crown  Imperiall :  Sure,  said  I, 
Peace  at  the  root  must  dwell. 
But  when  I  digg'd,  I  saw  a  worm  devoure 
What  show'd  so  well. 

At  length  I  met  a  rev'rend  good  old  man ; 
Whom  when  for  Peace 
I  did  demand,  he  thus  began : 
There  was  a  Prince  of  old 
At  Salem  dwelt,  who  liv'd  with  good  increase 
Of  flock  and  fold. 

He  sweetly  liv'd ;  yet  sweetnesse  did  not  save 
His  life  from  foes. 
But  after  death  out  of  his  grave. 

There  sprang  twelve  stalks  of  wheat; 
Which  many  wondring  at,  got  some  of  those 
To  plant  and  set. 

It  prosperVl  strangely,  and  did  soon  disperse 
Through  all  the  earth: 
For  they  that  taste  it  do  rehearse, 


334  RULE   BRITANNIA. 

That  vertne  lies  thei-ein ; 
A  secret  vertue,  bringing  peace  and  mirth 
By  flight  of  sinne. 

Take  of  this  grain,  which  in  my  garden  grows, 
And  grows  for  you ; 
Make  bread  of  it :  and  that  repose 
And  peace  which  ev'ry  where 
With  so  much  earnestnesse  you  do  pursue 
Is  onely  there. 


—~±,^S^®>S^'^ — 


Thomson. 


HEN  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command, 
^     Arose  from  out  the  azure  main, 
1.  This  was  the  charter  of  the  land, 

And  guardian  angels  sung  the  strain : 

Rule  Britannia,  Britannia  rules  the  waves' 
Britons  never  shall  be  slaves. 

The  nations  not  so  blest  as  thee 

Must  in  their  turn  to  tyrants  fall, 
Whilst  thou  shalt  flourish  great  and  free, 

The  dread  and  envy  of  them  all. 
Rule  Britannia,  &c. 


RULE   BRITANNIA. 


335 


Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise, 
More  dreadful  from  each  foreign  stroke; 

As  the  loud  blast  that  tears  the  skies 
Serves  brt  to  root  thy  native  oak. 
Rule  Britannia,  &c. 

Thee  haughty  tyrants  ne'er  shall  tame; 

All  their  attempts  to  bend  thee  down 
Will  but  arouse  thy  generous  flame. 

And  work  their  woe  and  thy  renown. 
Rule  Britannia,  &c. 

To  thee  belongs  the  rural  reign ; 

Thy  cities  shall  with  commerce  shine; 
All  shall  be  subject  to  the  main, 

And  every  shore  it  circles  thine. 

Rule  Britannia,  &c. 

The  muses,  still  with  freedom  found, 
Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  repair ; 

Blest  isle,  with  matchless  beauty  crowned. 
And  manly  hearts  to  guard  the  fair. 
Rule  Britannia,  &c. 


== — -t^A^^S^fS"^^ — • 


336  THE  maid's  lament. 


Tfe^e  Mali's  Lameit. 

Landor 

LOVED  him  not;  and  yet,  now  he  is  gone, 

I  feel  I  am  alone. 
I  checked  him  while  he  spoke ;  yet  could  he  speafc 

Alas!  I  would  not  check. 
For  reasons  not  to  love  him  once  I  sought, 

And  wearied  all  my  thought 
To  vex  myself  and  him :  I  now  would  give 

My  love  could  he  but  live 
Who  lately  lived  for  me,  and  when  he  found 

'Twas  vain,  in  holy  ground 
He  hid  his  face  amid  the  shades  of  death ! 

I  waste  for  him  my  breath 
Who  wasted  his  for  me ;  but  mine  returns, 

And  this  lone  bosom  burns 
With  stifling  heat,  heaving  it  up  in  sleep, 

And  waking  me  to  weep 
Tears  that  had  melted  his  soft  heart :  for  years 

Wept  he  as  bitter  tears ! 
"  Merciful  God!  "  such  was  his  latest  prayer, 

"  These  may  she  never  share!  " 
Quieter  is  his  breath,  his  breast  more  cold 

Than  daisies  in  the  mould, 
Where  children  spell  athwart  the  churchyard  gate 

His  name  and  life's  brief  date. 
Pray  for  him,  gentle  souls,  whoe'er  ye  be. 
And  O!  pray,  too,  for  me! 


HOME.  337 


J/Lontgorrhery 


d)  HERE  is  a  land,  of  every  land  the  pride, 
Beloved  by  heaven  o'er  all  the  world  beside; 
Where  brighter  suns  disjiense  serener  light, 
And  milder  moons  emparadise  the  night; 
A  land  of  beauty,  virtue,  valor,  truth. 
Time-tutored  age,  and  love-exalted  youth: 
The  wandering  mariner,  whose  eye  explores 
The  wealthiest  isles,  the  most  enchanting  shores, 
Views  not  a  realm  so  bountiful  and  foir, 
Nor  breathes  the  spirit  of  a  purer  air; 
In  eveiy  clime  the  magnet  of  his  soul. 
Touched  by  remembrance,  trembles  to  that  pole; 
For  in  this  land  of  heaven's  peculiar  grace. 
The  heritage  of  nature's  noblest  race. 
There  is  a  spot  of  earth  supremely  blest, 
A  dearer,  sweeter  spot  than  all  the  rest. 
Where  man,  creation's  tyrant,  casts  aside 
His  sword  and  sceptre,  pageantry  and  pride, 
While  in  his  softened  looks  benignly  blend 
The  sire,  the  son,  the  husband,  brother,  friend; 
Here  woman  reigns ;  the  mother,  daughter,  Avife, 
Strew  with  fresh  flowers  the  narrow  way  of  life! 
In  the  clear  heaven  of  her  delightful  eye. 
An  angel-guard  of  loves  and  graces  lie; 


B38  ADDRESS   TO   THE   OCEAN, 

Around  her  knees  domestic  duties  meet. 
And  fireside  pleasures  gambol  at  her  feet. 
Where  shall  that  land,  that  spot  of  earth  be  found? 
Art  thou  a  man? — •  a  patriot?  —  look  around; 
O,  thou  shalt  find,  howe'er  thy  footsteps  roam, 
That  land  thy  country,  and  that  spot  thy  home! 


(Procter. 
(Barry  Cornwall. 


THOU  vast  Ocean !  ever-sounding  Sea ! 
Thou  vast  symbol  of  a  drear  immensity! 
Thou  thing  that  windest  round  the  solid  world 
liike  a  huge  animal,  which,  downward  hurled 
From  the  black  clouds,  lies  weltering  and  alone. 
Lashing  and  writhing  till  its  strength  be  gone. 
Thy  voice  is  like  the  thunder,  and  thy  sleep 
Is  as  a  giant's  slumber,  loud  and  deep. 
Thou  speakest  in  tlie  east  and  in  the  west 
At  once,  and  on  thy  heavily  laden  breast 
Fleets  come  and  go,  and  shapes  that  have  no  life 
Or  motion,  yet  are  moved  and  meet  in  strife. 
The  earth  hath  nauglit  of  this :  no  chance  or  change 
Ruffles  its  surface,  and  no  spirits  dare 
Give  answer  to  the  tempest- wakened  air; 
But  o'er  its  wastes  the  weakly  tenants  range 
At  will,  and  wound  its  bosom  as  they  go: 
Ever  the  same,  it  hath  no  ebb,  no  flow 


JEANIE    MORKISON.  339 

But  in  their  stated  rounds  the  seasons  come, 
And  pass  like  visions  to  their  wonted  home  ; 
And  come  again,  and  vanish ;  the  young  Spring 
Looks  ever  tright  with  leaves  and  blossoming  ; 
And  Winter  always  winds  his  sullen  horn, 
When  the  wild  Autumn,  with  a  look  forlorn. 
Dies  in  his  stormy  manhood ;  and  the  skies 
Weep,  and  flowers  sicken,  when  the  summer  flies. 
Oh  !  wonderful  thou  art,  great  element : 
And  fearful  in  thy  spleeny  humors  bent, 
And  lovely  in  repose ;  thy  summer  form 
Is  beautiful ;  and  when  thy  silver  waves 
Make  music  in  earth's  dark  and  winding  caves, 
I  love  to  wander  on  thy  pebbled  beach. 
Marking  the  sunlight  at  the  evening  hour, 
And  hearken  to  the  thoughts  thy  waters  teach  — 
Eternity  —  Eternity  —  and  Power. 

— M5^ 

Wrru.  J^otherwell, 

(^3)  'VE  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west, 
Through  many  a  weary  way  ; 
But  never,  never  can  forget 

The  love  of  life's  young  day; 
The  fire  that's  blawn  on  Beltane  e'en, 

May  weel  be  black  gin  Yule  ; 
But  blacker  fa'  awaits  the  heart 
Where  first  fond  love  grows  cool. 


340  JEANIE   MORKISON. 


0  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 
The  thochts  o'  bygane  years 

Still  fling  their  shadows  owre  my  path. 

And  blind  my  een  wi'  tears! 
They  blind  my  een  wi'  saut,  saut  tearg. 

And  sair  and  sick  I  pine, 
As  memory  idly  siiitimons  up 

The  blythe  blinks  o'  langsyne, 

'Twas  then  we  loved  ilk  ither  weel, 

'Twas  then  we  twa  did  part; 
Sweet  time!  —  sad  time!  —  twa  bairns  at  sehule, 

Twa  bairns,  and  bnt  ae  heart! 
'Twas  then  we  sat  on  ae  laigh  bink, 

To  lear  ilk  ither  lear; 
And  tones,  and  looks,  and  smiles  were  shed. 

Remembered  ever  mair. 

1  wonder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet. 
When  sitting  on  that  bink 

Cheek  touchin'  cheek,  loof  locked  in  loof. 

What  our  "svee  heads  could  think. 
When  baith  bent  down  owre  ae  braid  page, 

Wi'  ae  buik  on  our  knee, 
Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 

My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

O  mind  ye  how  we  hung  our  heads. 

How  cheeks  brent  red  wi'  shame. 
Whene'er  the  schule-weans,  laughinS  said. 

We  cleek'd  thegither  hame? 


JEANIE   MORRISON.  341 


And  mind  ye  o'  the  Saturdays  — 
The  schule  then  skaled  at  noon  — 

When  we  ran  aff  to  speel  the  braes  — 
The  brooray  braes  o'  June? 

The  thi'ossil  whistled  in  the  wood, 

The  burn  sung  to  the  trees. 
And  we  with  Nature's  heart  in  tune 

Concerted  harmonies ; 
And  on  the  knowe  aboon  the  burn. 

For  hours  thegither  sat 
In  the  silentness  o'  joy,  till  baith 

Wi'  very  gladness  grat! 

Aye,  aye,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Tears  trinkled  doun  your  cheek. 
Like  dew-beads  on  a  rose,  yet  nane 

Had  ony  power  to  speak ! 
That  was  a  time,  a  blessed  time, 

When  hearts  were  fresh  and  young. 
When  freely  gushed  all  feelings  forth, 

Unsyllabled  —  unsung! 


"ttm»i' 


342 


THE   exile's   song. 


I^obert  G-ilfillan. 


H  !    why  left  I  my  hame? 

Why  did  I  cross  the  deep? 
Oil !  why  left  I  the  land 

Where  my  forefathers  sleep? 
I  sigh  for  Saotia's  shore, 

And  I  gaze  across  the  sea, 
But  I  canna  get  a  blink 

O'  my  ain  countrie! 

The  palm-tree  waveth  high, 

And  fair  the  myrtle  springs; 
And,  to  the  Indian  maid, 

The  bulbul  sweetly  sings. 
But  I  dinna  see  the  broom 

Wi'  its  tassels  on  the  lea, 
Nor  hear  the  lintie's  sang 

O'  my  ain  countrie! 

Oh!  here  no  Sal)bath  bell 

Awakes  the  Sabbath  mom. 
Nor  song  of  reapers  heard 

Amang  the  yellow  corn : 
For  the  tyrant's  voice  is  here. 

And  the  wail  o'  slaverie ; 
But  the  sun  of  freedom  shines 

In  my  ain  countrie! 


TEN   YEARS   AGO.  343 


There's  a  hope  for  every  woe, 

And  a  bahn  for  every  jmin, 
But  the  first  joys  o'  our  heart 

Come  never  back  again. 
There'b  a  track  upon  the  deep, 

And  a  path  across  the  sea; 
But  the  weary  ne'er  return 

To  their  ain  countrie ! 


Til  Years  Ap. 

Jllario  Jllexander  Watts 
"  ••isSi**  — 

TOO  am  changed  —  I  scarce  know  why  — 

Can  feel  each  flagging  pulse  decay ; 
And  youth  and  health,  and  visions  high, 

Melt  like  a  wreath  of  snow  away; 
Time  cannot  sure  have  wrought  the  ill ; 

Though  worn  in  this  world's  sickening  strife, 
In  soul  and  form,  I  linger  still 

In  the  first  summer  month  of  life; 
Yet  journey  on  my  path  below, 
Oh!  how  unlike  —  ten  years  ago! 

But  look  not  thus :  I  would  not  give 

The  wreck  of  hopes  that  thou  must  share. 

To  bid  those  joyous  hours  revive 
When  all  around  me  seemed  so  fair. 


344 


We've  wandered  on  in  sunny  weather. 

When  winds  were  low,  and  flowers  in  bloom, 

And  hand  in  hand  have  kept  together, 

And  still  will  keep,  'mid  storm  and  gloom; 

Endeared  by  ties  we  could  not  know 

When  life  was  young  —  ten  years  ago! 

Has  Fortune  frowned  ?     Her  frowns  were  vain, 

For  hearts  like  ours  she  could  not  chill ; 
Have  friends  proved  false?     Their  love  might  wane. 

But  ours  grew  fonder,  firmer  still. 
Twin  barks  on  this  world's  changing  wave. 

Steadfast  in  calms,  in  tempests  tried ; 
In  concert  still  our  fate  we'll  In-ave, 

Together  cleave  life's  fitful  tide; 
Nor  mourn,  whatever  winds  may  blow, 
ITouth's  first  wild  dreams  —  ten  years  ago! 


^Thomas  Haynes  ^ayly. 

E   mot  —  'twas    in  a  crowd  —  and  I  thought  ho 
^  would  shun  me; 

He  came  —  I  could  not  breathe,  for  his  eye  was 

upon  me; 
He  spoke  —  his  words  were  cold,  and  his  smile 

was  unaltered ; 
I   knew  how  much  he  felt,  for  his  deep-toned 
voice  folter'd. 


FROM   "THE   LAYS   OF   ANCIENT    HOME." 


345 


I  wore  my  bridal  robe,  and  I  rivall'd  its  whiteness; 
Bright  gems  were  in  my  hair,  how  I  hated  their  brightness! 
He  called  me  by  my  name,  as  the  bride  of  another  — 
Oh,  thou  hast  been  the  cause  of  this  anguish,  my  mother! 

And  once  again  we  met,  and  a  fair  girl  was  near  him : 

He  smiled,  and  whispered  low  —  as  I  once  used  to  hear  him. 

She  leant  iipon  his  arm  —  once  'twas  mine,  and  mine  only  — 

I  wept,  for  I  deserved  to  feel  wretched  and  lonely. 

And  she  will  be  his  bride!  at  the  altar  he'll  give  her 

The  love  that  was  too  pure  for  a  heartless  deceiver. 

The  world  may  think  me  gay,  for  my  feelings  I  smother  — 

Oh,  thou  hast  been  the  cause  of  this  anguish,  my  mother! 


J\^acaulay. 


HEN  out  spake  brave  Horatius, 

The  captain  of  the  gate : 
"  To  every  man  upon  this  earth 

Death  cometh  soon  or  late. 
And  how  can  man  die  better 

Tiian  facing  fearful  odds. 
For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers. 

And  the  temples  of  his  gods ;  - 

"  And  for  the  tender  mother 
Who  dandled  him  to  rest, 


846      FROM  "THE  LAYS  OF  ANCIENT  ROME. 

And  for  the  wife  who  nurses 

His  baby  at  lier  breast ; 
And  for  the  holy  maidens 

Who  feed  the  eternal  flame, 
To  save  them  from  false  Sextus, 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame? 

"  Hew  down  the  bridge.  Sir  Consul, 

With  all  the  speed  ye  may; 
I,  with  two  more  to  help  me. 

Will  hold  the  foe  in  play. 
In  yon  strait  path  a  thousand 

May  well  be  stopped  by  three. 
Now,  who  will  stand  on  either  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  me?" 

Then  oat  spake  Spurins  Lartius; 

A  Ramnian  proud  was  he: 
"  Lo,  I  will  stand  at  thy  right  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 
And  out  spake  strong  Herminius  ; 

Of  Titan  blood  was  he  : 
"  I  will  abide  on  thy  left  side. 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 

"  Horatius,"  quoth  the  Consul, 

"  As  thou  say'st,  so  let  it  be." 
And  straight  against  that  great  arraj 

Forth  went  the  dauntless  three. 
For  Romans  in  Rome's  quarrel 

Spared  neither  land  nor  ^old, 
Nor  son  nor  wife,  nor  limb  nor  life. 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 


CASTLES  IN   THE  AIR.  347 


Then  none  was  for  a  party ; 

Then  all  were  for  the  state ; 
Then  the  great  men  helped  the  poor, 

And  the  poor  man  loved  the  great; 
Then  lands  were  fairly  portioned; 

Then  spoils  were  fiiirly  sold ; 
The  Romans  were  like  brothers 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Now^  Roman  is  to  Roman 

More  hateful  than  a  foe. 
And  the  tribunes  beard  the  high, 

And  the  fathers  grind  the  low. 
As  we  wax  hot  in  faction, 

In  battle  we  wax  cold : 
Wherefore  men  fight  not  as  they  fought 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

-'ij^i" 


James  ^allantine. 


oJOic 


HE  bonnie,  bonnie  bairn  sits  pokin'  in  the  ase, 
Glowerin'  in  tlie  hre  wr  nis  wee  round  face; 
Laughin'  at  the  fuffin'  lowe  —  what  sees  he  there? 
Ha!  the  young  dreamer's  biggin'  castles  in  the  air! 

His  wee  chubby  face,  an'  his  tousy  curly  pow, 
Are  lauo-hin'  an'  noddin'  to  the  dancin'  lowe, 


348  CASTLES   IN   THE   AIR. 

He'll  brown  his  rosy  cheeks,  and  singe  his  sunny  hair, 
Glow'rin'  at  the  imps  wi'  their  castles  in  the  air. 

He  sees  mnckle  castles  towerin'  to  the  moon. 
He  sees  little  sodgers  pu'in'  them  a'  doun; 
Warlds  whomlin'  up  an'  doiin,  bleezin'  wi'  a  flare, 
Losh!  how  he  loups,  as  they  glimmer  in  the  air! 

for  a'  sae  sage  he  looks,  what  can  the  laddie  ken? 

lie's  thinkin'  upon  naething,  like  mony  mighty  men. 

A  wee  thing  mak's  us  think,  a  sma'  thing  mak's  us  stare. 


Sic  a  night  in  winter  may  weel  mak  him  cauld  ; 
His  chin  upon  his  buflfy  hand  will  soon  mak  him  auld; 
His  brow  is  brent  sae  braid,  so  pray  that  Daddy  Care 
Wad  let  the  wean  alane  wi'  his  castles  in  the  air. 

He'll  glower  at  the  fire,  and  he'll  keek  at  the  light; 
But  mony  sparkling  stars  are  swallow'd  up  by  Night; 
Aulder  een  than  his  are  glamour'd  by  a  glare, 
Hearts    are    broken  —  heads   are   turned  —  wi'    castles   in 
the  air. 


-^A^S^m^m^'^'^ 


THE   MEN   OF   OLD.  34f, 


TM  Mm  @f  ®M, 


if.  Jkf.  J^ilnes 


KNOW  not  that  the  men  of  old 

Were  better  than  men  now. 
Of  heart  more  kind,  of  hand  more  bold, 

Of  more  ingenuous  brow : 
I  heed  not  those  who  pine  for  force 

A  ghost  of  time  to  raise. 
As  if  they  thus  could  check  the  course 

Of  these  appointed  days. 

Still  is  it  true,  and  over-true, 

That  I  deliglit  to  close 
This  book  of  life  self-wise  and  new. 

And  let  my  thoughts  repose 
On  all  that  humble  happiness 

The  world  has  since  foregone  — 
The  daylight  of  contentedness 

That  on  those  fixces  shone ! 

With  rights,  though  not  too  closely  scanned. 

Enjoyed,  as  far  as  known  — 
With  will,  by  no  reverse  unmanned  — 

With  pulse  of  even  tone  — 
They  from  to-day  and  from  to-night 

Expected  nothing  more 
Than  yesterday  and  yesternight 

Had  proffered  them  before. 


350 


CLEAR  THE   WAY. 


A  man's  best  things  are  nearest  him, 

Lie  close  about  his  feet, 
It  is  the  distant  and  the  dim 

That  we  are  sick  to  greet : 
For  flowers  that  grow  our  hands  beneath 

We  struggle  and  aspire  — 
Our  hearts  must  die,  except  they  breathe 

The  air  of  fresh  desire. 


--ss^^^^^^-'^^ 


Charles  J\iaakay. 


EN  of  thought!  be  up,  and  stirring 

Night  and  day : 
Sow  and  seed  —  withdraw  the  curtain  — 

Clear  the  way ! 
Men  of  action,  aid  and  cheer  them. 

As  ye  may! 
There's  a  fount  about  to  stream, 
There's  a  light  about  to  beam. 
There's  a  warmtli  about  to  glow, 
There's  a  flower  about  to  blow ; 
There's  a  midnight  blackness  changing 

Into  gray ; 
Men  of  thought  and  men  of  action, 
Clear  the  way ! 


CLEAU  THE   AVAY.  351 


Once  the  welcome  light  has  broken, 

Who  shall  say 
What  the  unimagined  glories 

Of  the  day? 
What  the  evil  that  shall  perish 

In  its  ray? 
Aid  the  dawning,  tongue  and  pen; 
Aid  it,  hopes  of  honest  men. 
Aid  it,  paper  —  aid  it,  type  — 
Aid  it,  for  the  hour  is  ripe, 
And  our  earnest  mnst  not  slacken 

Into  play. 
Men  of  thought  and  men  of  action, 

Clear  the  way! 

Lo!  a  cloud's  about  to  vanish 

From  the  day ; 
And  a  brazen  wrong  to  crumble 

Into  clay. 
Lo!  the  Right's  about  to  conquer; 

Clear  the  way ! 
With  the  Right  shall  many  more 
Enter  smiling  at  the  door; 
With  the  giant  Wrong  shall  fall 
Many  others,  great  and  small. 
That  for  ages  long  have  held  us 

For  their  pi'ey. 
Men  of  thought  and  men  of  action; 

Clear  the  way ! 


352  FROM  "babe  ciiristabel." 


G-erald  Jvlassei, 


-*- 


ND  thoii  hast  stolen  a  jewel,  Death! 
Shall  light  th}^  dark  up  like  a  star, 
A  beacon  kindling  from  afar 
Our  light  of  love,  and  fainting  faith. 

Through  teai's  it  gleams  pei-petually, 

And  glitters  through  the  thickest  glooms, 
Till  the  eternal  morning  comes 

To  light  us  o'er  the  Jasper  sea. 

With  our  best  branch  in  tenderest  leaf. 

We've  strewn  the  way  our  Lord  doth  come: 
And,  ready  for  the  harvest  home, 

His  reapers  bind  our  ripest  sheaf 

Our  beautiful  bird  of  light  hath  fled; 

Awhile  she  sat  with  folded  wings  — 

Sang  round  us  a  few  hoverings  — 
Then  straightway  into  glory  sped. 

And  white-winged  angels  nurture  her; 

With  heaven's  white  radiance  robed  and  crowned, 

And  all  love's  purple  glory  round, 
She  summers  on  the  hills  of  myrrh. 

Through  childhood's  morning-land,  serene 
She  walked  betwixt  us  twain,  like  love; 
While,  in  a  robe  of  light  above, 

Her  better  angel  walked  unseen,  — 


FROM  "babe  ciiristabel."  353 


Till  life's  highway  broke  bleak  and  wild ; 
Then,  lest  her  starry  garments  trail 
In  mire,  heart  bleed,  and  courage  fail, 

The  angeVs  arras  caught  np  the  child. 

Her  wave  of  life  hath  backward  rolled 
To  the  great  o(?ean ;  on  whose  shore 
We  wander  up  and  down,  to  store 

Some  treasures  of  the  times  of  old :  — 

And  aye  we  seek  and  hunger  on 
For  precious  pearls  and  relics  rare. 
Strewn  on  the  sands  for  us  to  wear 

At  heart  for  love  of  her  that's  gone. 

O  weep  no  more !  there  yet  is  balm 
In  Gilead!  Love  doth  ever  shed 
Rich  healing  where  it  nestles  —  spread 

O'er  desert  pillows  some  green  palm ! 

Strange  glory  streams  through  life's  wild  rents, 
And  through  the  open  door  of  death 
We  see  the  heaven  that  beckoneth 

To  the  beloved  going  hence. 

God's  ichor  fills  the  hearts  that  bleed; 

The  best  fruit  loads  the  broken  bough ; 

And  in  the  wounds  our  sufferings  plough^ 
Immortal  love  sows  sovereign  seed. 


354 


THE   GIIANDMOTIIKK. 


Victor  Hugo. 


o>Kc 


y 


i^^  OTHER   of  our    own   dear    mothei-,  good   old 
grandam,  wake  and  smile! 
^Commonly,  youi"  lips  keep  moving  when  you're 
sleeping  all  the  while; 
For  between  j'our  prayer  and  slumber  scarce 

the  difference  is  known; 
But  to-night  you're  like  the  image  of  Madonna 
cut  in  stone. 
With  your  lips  without  a  motion  or  a  breath  —  a  single 
one. 


Why  more  heavily  than  usual  dost  thou  bend  thy  old  gray 

brow  ? 
What    is    it    we've    done   to   grieve  thee  that  thou'lt  not 

caress  us  now? 
Grandam,  see,  the  lamp  is  paling,  and  the  fire  burns  fast 

away ; 
Speak  to  us,   or  fire   and  lamp-liglit  will   not  uny  longer 

stay. 
And  thy  two  poor  little  children,  we  shall  die  as  well  as 

they. 


Ah!  when  thou  shalt  wake  and  find  us  near  the  lamp  that's 

ceased  to  b".rn. 
Dead,  and  when  thou  speakest  to  us,  deaf  and  silent  in  oui 

turn  — 


THE   GRANDMOTHEK.  355 

Then  how  great  will  be  thy  sorrow !  then  thou'lt  cry  for  us 

in  vain. 
Call  upon  thy  saint    and  patron  for  a  long,  long  time,  and 

fain, 
And   a  long,   long  time  embrace  us  ere  we  come  to  life 

again ! 

Only  feel  how  warm  our  hands  are ;  wake  and  place  thy 
hands  in  ours; 

Walie,  and  sing  us  some  old  ballad  of  the  wandering 
troubadours. 

Tell  us  of  those  knights  whom  fairies  used  to  help  to  love 
and  fame : 

Knights  who  brought,  instead  of  posies,  spoils  and  tro- 
phies to  their  dame. 

And  whose  war-cry  in  the  battle  was  a  lady's  gentle  name. 

Tell  us  what's  the  sacred  token  wicked  shapes  and  sprites 

to  scare ! 
And  of  Lucif  >T  —  who  was  it  saw  him  flying  through  the 

air? 
What's  the  gem   that's  on  the  forehead   of  the  King  of 

Gnomes  displayed? 
Does  Archbishop  Turpin's  psalter,  or  Roland's   enormous 

blade. 
Daunt  the  great  black  King  of  Evil?  —  say,  which  makes 

him  most  afraid? 

Or  thy  large  old  Bible  reach  us,  with  its  pictures  bright 

and  blue. 
Heaven  all  gold,   and  saints   a-kneeling,  and   the   infan' 

Jesus  too, 


356  THE   GRANDMOTHER. 

In  the  manger  with  the  oxen;   and  the  kings;  and  soft" 

and  slow 
O'er  the  middle  of  the  pages  guide  our  fingers  as  we  go, 
Reading  some  of  that  good  Latin,  speaks  to  God  from  its 

you  know. 

Grandam,  see,  the  light  is  failing  —  failing ;   and  upon  the 

hearth. 
And  around  the  blackened  ingle,  leaps  the  shadow  in  its 

mirth. 
Ha!  perhaps  the  sprites  are  coming!  yes,  they'll  soon  be  at 

the  door; 
Wake,  oh,  wake !  and  if  you're  praying,  dearest  grandam, 

pray  no  more; 
Sure,  you  do  not  wish  to  fright  us,  you  who  cheered  us  aye 

before? 

But  thine   arms   are   colder,    colder;   and   thine    eyes    so 

closed  are : 
'Twas  but  lately  you  did  tell  us  of  another  world  afar , 
And  of  heaven  you  were  discoursing,  and  the  grave  where 

people  lie  — 
Told    us  life  was  short  and  fleeting,  and  of  death  —  that 

all  must  die. 
What  is  death?  dear  grandam,  tell  us  what  it  is.  —  You 

don't  reply ! 

Long  time  did  those  slender  voices  moan  and  murmur  all 
alone ; 

Still  the  aged  dame  awaked  not,  though  the  golden  morn- 
ing shone, 


THE   SKELETON    IN   ARMOR.  357 


Soon  was  heard  the  dismal  tolling  of  the  solemn  fnneral 

bell; 
Mournfully  the  air  resounded ;  and,  as  silent  evening  fell. 
One  who    passed    that    door    half-opened    those   two  little 

ones  espied. 
With    the   holy   book  before  them,  kneeling   at   the  lo^ie 
bedside. 


-><^:«^^f^^^»x- 


Longfellow. 


PEAK!  speak!  thou  fearful  guest! 
Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armor  drest, 

Comest  to  daunt  me! 
Wrapt  not  in  eastern  balms, 
But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms, 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me? 

Then  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise. 
As  when  the  northern  skies 

Gleam  in  December, 
And  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow. 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 

From  the  heart's  chamber; 


358  THE  SKELETON   IN   AKMOK. 

"  I  was  a  Viking  old  ! 

My  deeds,  though  manifold, 

No  Skald  in  song  has  told! 

No  Saga  taught  thee ! 
Take  heed  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse! 

For  this  I  sought  thee. 

"  Far  in  the  Northern  land, 
By  the  wide  Baltic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand, 

Tamed  the  ger-falcon ; 
And,  with  ray  skates  fast  bound. 
Skimmed  the  half-frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 

Trembled  to  walk  on. 

"Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  I  the  grislj'  bear. 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 

Fled  like  a  shadow; 
Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were-wolfs  bark. 
Until  the  soaring  lark 

Sang  from  the  meadow. 

"  But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  corsair's  crew, 
O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 
With  the  marauders. 


THE   SKELETON   IN   AUMOlt.  359 

Wild  was  the  life  we  led ; 
Many  the  souls  that  sped. 
Many  the  heai-ts  that  bled, 
By  our  stern  orders. 

•'  Many  a  wassial  bout 
Wore  the  long  winter  out ; 
Often  our  midnight  slioixt 

Set  the  cocks  crowing. 
As  we  the  Bersek's  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale, 
Draining  the  oaken  pail 

Filled  to  o'ertiowing. 

"Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea. 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 

Burning,  yet  tender ; 
And,  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine. 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 

Fell  their  soft  splendor. 

"I  wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  aft-aid. 
And  in  the  forest's  shade 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 
Under  its  loosened  vest 
Fluttered  her  little  breast. 
Like  birds  within  tlieir  nest 

By  the  hawk  frightened. 


360  THE   SKELETON  IN   ARMOR. 


"  Bright  in  her  father's  hall 
Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 

Chanting  his  glory; 
When  of  old  Hildebrand 
I  asked  his  daugliter's  hand, 
Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 

To  hear  my  story. 

"  While  tlie  brown  ale  he  quajBfed, 
Loud  then  the  champion  laughed 
And,  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 

The  sea-foam  brightly. 
So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn. 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn. 
From  the  deep  drinking-horn 

Blew  the  foam  lightly. 

*'  She  was  a  Prince's  child, 

I  but  a  Viking  wild, 

And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled, 

I  was  discarded! 
Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight  ? 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 

Her  nest  unguarded? 

"  Scarce  had  I  put  sea, 
Beai'ing  the  maid  with  me  — 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen!  — 


THE   SKELETON   IN   ARMOR.  361 


When,  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand. 
Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 
With  twenty  horsemen, 

"  Then  launched  they  to  the  blast; 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast ; 
Yet  we  were  gaining  fast, 

When  the  wind  failed  lis; 
And  with  a  sudden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  skaw, 
So  that  our  foe  Ave  saw 

Laugh  as  he  hailed  us. 

"  And  as,  to  catch  the  gale, 
Round  veered  the  flapping  sail. 
Death  was  the  helmsman's  hail  -= 

Death  without  quarter! 
Mid-ships,  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 

Through  the  black  water! 

"  As  with  his  wings  aslant, 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt. 

With  his  prey  laden. 
So  toward  the  open  main 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane 

Bore  I  the  maiden. 


3o2  THE  SKELETON   IN   AKMOK. 

"  Three  weeks  we  westwai-d  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o'er, 
Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 

Stretching  to  leeward ; 
There,  for  my  lady's  bower, 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower 
Which,  to  this  very  hour. 

Stands  looking  seaward. 

"  There  lived  we  many  years; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears, 

She  was  a  motlier. 
Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyesj 
Under  that  tower  she  lies ; 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 

On  such  another! 

"  Still  grew  my  bosom  then. 
Still  as  a  stagnant  fen! 
Hateful  to  me  were  men  — 

The  sunlight  hateful ! 
In  the  vast  forest  here. 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear. 
Fell  I  upon  my  spear, 

O,  death  was  grateful! 

"  Thus,  seamed  with  many  scars. 
Bursting  its  prison  bai-s. 
Up  to  its  native  stars 
My  soul  ascended! 


THE   PRESENT   CRISIS. 


363 


There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  soul, 
Skoal!  to  the  Northland!  Skoal P^ 
Thus  the  tale  ended. 


James  I^ussell  Lovuell. 


»/f  HEN  a  deed  is  done  for  Freedom,  through  the 
J)  broad  earth's  aching  breast. 

Runs    a  thrill   of   joy    prophetic,    trembling  on 

from  east  to  west, 
And  the  slave,  where'er  he  cowei's,  feels  the  soul 

within  him  climb 
To  the  awful  verge  of  manhood,  as  the  energy 
sublime 
Of  a  century  bursts  full-blossomed  on  the  thorny  stem  of 
Time. 

Through  the  walls  of  hut  and  palace  shoots  the  instanta- 
neous throe. 

When  the  travail  of  the  Ages  wrings  earth's  systems  to 
and  fro; 

At  the  birth  of  each  new  Era,  with  a  recognizing  start. 

Nation  wildly  looks  at  nation,  standing  with  mute  lips 
apart. 

And  glad  Truth's  yet  mightier  man-child  leaps  beneath  the 
Future's  heart. 


364  THE   PRESENT   CRISIS. 

So    the    Evil's    triumph    sendeth,    with    a    terror    and   a 

chill, 
Under  continent  to  continent,  the  sense  of  coming  ill. 
And  the  slave,  where'er  he  cowers,  feels   his  sympathies 

with  God 
In  hot  tear-drops  ebbing  earthward,  to  be  drunk  up  by  the 

sod. 
Till  a  corpse  crawls  round  unburied,  delving  in  the  nobler 

clod! 


For    mankind    are    one    in    spirit,   and   an  instinct  bears 

along. 
Round  the  earth's  electric  circle,  the  swift  flash  of  right  or 

wrong  ; 
Whether  conscious  or  unconscious,  yet    Humanity's  vast 

frame 
Through  its  ocean-sundered  fibres  feels  the  gush  of  joy  or 

shame ;  — 
In   the  gain   or  loss  of  one  race  all  the  rest  have  equal 

claim. 

Once    to    eveiy  man    and   nation  comes  the  moment  to 

decide. 
In  the  strife  of  Truth  with  Falsehood,  for  the  good  or  evil 

side; 
Some  great  cause,  God's  new   Messiah,  oflFering  each  the 

bloom  or  blight. 
Parts  the  goats  upon  the  left-hand,  and  the  sheep  upon  the 

right,  — 
And  the  choice  goes  by  for  ever  'twixt  that  darkness  and 

that  light! 


THE   PRESENT   CKISIS.  365 

Hast  thou  chosen,  O  my  j^eople,  on  whose  party  thou  shalt 

stand, 
Ere    the   Doom    from   its   worn   sandals   shakes   the   dust 

against  our  land? 
Though  the  cause  of  Evil  prosper,  yet  'tis  Truth  alone  is 

strong ; 
And,    albeit   she   wander  outcast   now,    I  see   around  her 

throng 
Troops  of  beautiful,  tall  angels,  to  enshield  her  from  all 

wronsr. 


Backwai-d  look  across  the  ages  and  the  beacon-moments 
see, 

That,  like  peaks  of  some  sunk  continent,  jut  through  Ob- 
livion's sea; 

Not  an  ear  in  court  or  market  for  the  low  foreboding  cry 

Of  those  Crises,  God's  stern  winnowers,  from  whose  feet 
earth's  chaff  must  fly ; 

Never  shows  the  choice  momentous  till  the  judgment  hath 
passed  by. 

Careless   seems   the   great  Avenger;   history's   pages  but 

record 
One  death-grapple  in  the  darkness  'twixt  old  systems  and 

the  Word ; 
Truth  for  ever  on   the   scaffold.    Wrong  for   ever  on  the 

throne,  — 
Yet  that  scaffold  sways  the  future,  and,  behind  the  dim 

unknown, 
Standeth    God  within  the  shadow,  keeping  watch  above 

his  own. 


866  THE   PRESENT  CRISIS. 

We  see  dimly  in  the  Present  what  is  small  and  what  is 
great. 

Slow  of  faith  how  weak  an  arm  may  turn  the  iron  helm 
of  fate; 

But  the  soul  is  still  oracular:  amid  the  market's  din 

List  the  ominous  stern  wiiispor  from  the  Delphic  cave 
within,  — 

"  They  enslave  their  children's  children  who  make  compro- 
mise with  sin." 


Slaveiy,  the  earthborn  Cj'clops,  fellest  of  the  giant 
brood, 

Sons  of  brutish  Force  and  Darkness,  who  have  drenched 
the  earth  with  blood, 

Famished  in  his  self-made  desert,  blinded  by  our  purer 
day. 

Gropes  in  yet  unblasted  regions  for  his  miserable 
prey :  — 

Shall  we  guide  his  gory  fingers  where  our  helpless  chil- 
dren play? 


Then   to   side   with   Truth   is   noble   Avhen   we   share   licr 

Avretched  crust, 
Ere  her  cause  bring  fame  and  profit,  and  'tis  prosj^erous  to 

be  just; 
Then  it  is  the  brave  man  chooses,  while  the  coward  stands 

aside, 
Doubting  in  his  abject  sjsirit,  till  his  Lord  is  crucified, 
And   the   multitude   make   virtue   of    the    faith   they   had 

denied 


THE   I'KESENT   ClUSIS.  367 

Coimt  me   o'er   Earth's   chosen  heroes,  —  they  were  souls 

that  stood  alone 
While  the  men  they  agonized  for  hurled  the  contumelious 

stone ;  — 
Stood  serene  and  down  the  future  saw  the  golden  beam 

incline 
To    the    side    of   perfect  justice,  mastered  by  their  faith 

divine. 
By    one    man's   plain    truth    to    manhood    and  to  God's 

supreme  design. 

By  the  light  of  burning  heretics  Christ's  bleeding  feet  I 

track. 
Toiling  up  new  Calvaries  ever  with  the  cross  that  turns 

not  back. 
And  these  mounts  of  anguish  number  how  each  generation 

learned 
One  new  word  of  that  grand  Credo  which  in  prophet-hearts 

hath  burned 
Since   the  first  man  stood  God-conquered  with  his  face  to 

heaven  upturned. 

For  humanity  sweejis  onward :  where  to-day  the  martyr 
stands, 

On  the  morrow  crouches  Judas  with  the  silver  in  his 
hands ; 

Far  in  front  the  cross  stands  ready  and  the  crackling 
fagots  burn,  • 

While  the  hooting  mob  of  yesterday  in  silent  awe  re- 
turn 

To  glean  up  the  scattered  ashes  into  History's  golden  urn. 


368  THE   PRESENT   CRISIS. 

'Tis  as  easy  to  be  heroes  as  to  sit  the  idle  slaves 

Of  a  legendaiy  virtue  carved  upon  our  fathers'  graves; 

Worshippers  of  light  ancestral  make  the  present  liglit  a 
crime ;  — 

Was  the  Mayflower  launched  by  cowards,  steered  by  men 
behind  their  time? 

Turn  those  tracks  toward  Past  or  Future,  that  make  Ply- 
mouth rock  sublime? 

They  were  men  of  present  valor,  stalwart  old  icono- 
clasts ; 

Unconvinced  by  ax  or  gibbet  that  all  virtue  was  the 
Past's  ; 

But  we  make  tlieir  truth  our  falsehood,  thinking  that  hath 
made  us  free, 

Hoarding  it  in  mouldy  parchments,  while  our  tender  spirits 
flee 

The  rude  grasp  of  that  great  Impulse  which  drove  them 
across  the  sea. 


They  have  rights  who  dare  maintain  them ;  we  are  traitors 
to  our  sires, 

Smotliering  in  their  holy  ashes  Freedom's  new-lit  altar 
fires ; 

Shall  we  make  their  creed  our  jailer?  Shall  we,  in  our 
haste  to  slay. 

From  the  tombs  of  the  old  prophets  steal  the  funeral 
lamps  away 

To  light  up  the  martyr-fagots  round  the  prophets  of  to- 
day? 


SONG   OF   THE   STARS.  365 

New  occasions  teach  new  duties.;  Time  makes  ancient 
good  uncouth ; 

They  must  upward  still,  and  onwai'd,  who  would  keep 
abreast  of  Truth ; 

IjO,  before  us  gleam  her  camp-fires!  we  ourselves  must 
Pilgrims  be. 

Launch  our  Mayflower,  and  steer  boldly  through  the  des- 
perate winter  sea. 

Nor  attempt  the  Future's  portal  with  the  Past's  blood- 
rusted  key. 


^ryant. 


'^ 


HEN  the  radiant  morn  of  creation  broke. 
And  the  world  in  the  smile  of  God  awoke, 
^^^vl^    And  the  empty  realms  of  darkness  and  death 

Were  moved  through  their  depths  by  his  mighty 

breath. 
And  orbs  of  beauty  and  spheres  of  flame 
From  the  void  abyss  by  myriads  came,  — 
In  the  joy  of  youth  as  they  darted  away, 
Through  the  widening  wastes  of  space  to  play, 
Their  silver  voice  in  chorus  rang. 
And  this  was  the  song  the  bright  ones  sang: 

"Away,  aAvay,  through  the  wide,  wide  sky. 
The  fair,  blue  fields  that  before  us  lie,  — 
24 


370  SONG  OF  THE  STARS. 


Each  sun,  with  the  worlds  that  round  him  i-ofv 
Each  planet,  poised  on  her  turning  pole ; 
With  her  isles  of  green,  and  her  clouds  of  white. 
And  her  waters  that  lie  like  fluid  light. 

"  For  the  source  of  glory  uncovers  his  face. 
And  the  brightness  o'erflows  unbounded  space; 
And  we  drink  as  we  go  the  luminous  tides 
In  our  ruddy  air  and  our  blooming  sides : 
Lo!  yonder  the  living  splendors  play  ; 
Away,  on  our  joyous  path,  away! 

"  Look,  look,  through  our  glittering  ranks  afar. 
In  the  infinite  azure,  star  after  star. 
How  they  brighten  and  bloom  as  they  swiftly  pass ! 
How  the  verdure  runs  o'er  each  rolling  mass! 
And  the  path  of  the  gentle  winds  is  seen. 
Where  the  small  waves  dance,  and  the  young  woods 
lean. 

"  And  see,  where  the  brighter  day-beams  pour, 
How  the  rainbows  hang  in  the  sunny  shower; 
And  the  morn  and  eve,  with  their  pomp  of  hues, 
Shift  o'er  the  bright  planets,  and  shed  their  dews; 
And  'twixt  them  both,  o'er  the  teeming  ground. 
With  her  shadowy  cone  the  night  goes  round! 

"Away,  away!  in  our  blossoming  bowers. 
In  the  soft  air  wrapping  these  spheres  of  ours. 
In  the  seas  and  fountains  that  shine  with  morn. 
See,  Love  is  brooding,  and  Life  is  born; 
And  breathing  myriads  are  breaking  from  night, 
To  rejoice,  like  us,  in  motion  and  light." 


BINGEN   ON  THE   UIIINE.  371 

filide  on  in  j^our  beauty,  ye  youthful  spheres, 

To  weave  the  dance  that  measures  the  years! 

Glide  on,  in  the  glorj'  and  gladness  sent 

To  the  furthest  wall  of  the  firmament,  — 

The  boundless,  visible  smile  of  Him, 

To  the  veil  of  whose  brow  your  lamps  are  dim  J 


-^ 


J\/[rs.  E.   G.  JTorton, 


SOLDIER  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers, 
There  was   lack  of    woman's  nursing,   there  was 
/'^!vr<  ^  dearth  of  woman's  tears ; 

^But  a  comrade  stood  beside   him,  while  his  life- 
blood  ebbed  away. 
And  bent,  with  pitying  glances,  to  hear  what  he 
might  say. 

The  dying  soldier  faltered,  as  he  took  that  comrade's  hand, 
And  he  said,  "  I  never  more  shall  see  my  own,  my  native 

land: 
Take  a  message  and  a  token   to  some  distant  friends  of 

mine  ; 
For  I  was  born  at  Bingen,  —  at  Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 

"Tell  my  brothei-s  and  companions,  when  they  meet  and 
crowd  around. 

To  hear  my  mournful  story,  in  the  pleasant  vineyard- 
ground. 


372  BINGEPf   ON   THE   RHINE. 

That  we  fought  the  battle  bi-avely,  and,  when  the  day  was 

done, 
Full  many  a  corse  lay  ghastly  pale  beneath  the  setting  snn; 
And    'mid   the   dead  and  dying  were  some  grown  old  in 

wai-s,  — 
The  death-wonnd  on  their  gallant  breasts,  the  last  of  many 

scars; 
And   some   were   young,   and  suddenly  beheld  life's  morn 

decline,  — 
And   one   had   come  from   Bingen,  —  fair  Bingen   on   the 

Rhine. 

"  Tell  my  mother  that  her  other  son  shall  comfort  her  old 

age; 
For  I   was  still   a  truant  bird,  that  thought  his  home  a 

cage; 
For  my  fatlier  was  a  soldier,  and  even  as  a  child 
My  heart  leai^ed  forth  to  hear  him  tell  of  struggles  fierce 

and  wild  ; 
And  when  he  died,  and  left  us  to  divide  his  scanty  hoard, 
I    let    them    take   whate'er   they   would,  —  but   kept  my 

father's,  ^word ; 
And  with  boyisi  'ove  I  hung  it  whei-e  the  bright  light  used 

to  shine, 
On   the   cottage   wiiu  at   Bingen, —  calm   Bingen   on    the 

Rhine. 


"  Tell  my  sister  not  to  weep  for  me,  and  sob  with  droop- 
ing head, 

When  the  troops  come  marching  homo  again,  with  glad 
and  gallant  tread. 


BINGEN   ON   THE   KHINE.  373 

But  to  look  uiwn  them  proudly,  with  a  calm  and  steadfast 

eye, 
For  her  brother  was  a  soldier,  too,  and  not  afraid  to  die; 
And  if  a  comrade  seek  her  love,  I  ask  her  in  my  name. 
To  listen  to  him  kindly,  without  regret  or  shame. 
And  to  hang  the  old  sword  in  its  place  (my  father's  sword 

and  mine). 
For    the    lionor    of   old    Bingen,  —  dear    Bingen    on    the 

Rhine. 

"  There's    another  —  not    a    sister ;    in    the    ha^jpy   days 

gone  by 
You'd  have  known  her  by  the  merriment  that  sparkled  in 

her  eye ; 
Too  innocent  for  coquetry,  —  too  fond  for  idle  scorning,  — 
O,    friend!    I    fear    the   lightest    heart   makes   sometimes 

heaviest  mourning! 
Tell   her   the    last  night   of  my   life    (for   ere   the    moon 

be  risen. 
My  body  will  be  out  of  pain,  my  soul  be  out  of  prison)  — 
I  dreamed  I  stood  with  her,  and  saw  the  yellow  sunlight 

shine 
On  the  vine-clad  hills  of  Bingen,  —  sweet  Bingen  on  the 

Ehine. 

"  I  saw  the  blue  Rhine  sweep  aiong,  —  I  heard,  or  seemed 

to  hear. 
The  German  songs  we  usea  to  smg  in  chorus  sweet  and 

clear ; 
And  down  the  pleasant  river,  and  up  the  slanting  hill. 
The  echoing  chorus  sounded  through  the  evening  calm  and 

still  J 


374  BINGEN   ON   THE   UIIINE. 

And  her  glad  blue  eyes  were  on  me,  as  we  passed  with 

friendly  talk, 
Down  many  a  path  beloved  of  yore,  and  well-remembered 

walk! 
And  her  little  hand  lay  lightly,  confidingly  in  mine,  — 
But  we  meet  no  more  at  Bingen,  —  loved  Bingen  on  the 

Rhine." 

His  trembling  voice  grew  faint  and  hoarse,  —  his   gi'asp 

was  childish  weak,  — 
His  eyes  put  on  a  dying  look,  —  he  sighed,  and  ceased  to 

speak ; 
His  comrade  bent  to  lift  him,  but   the  spark  of  life  had 

fled,— 
The  soldier  of  the  Legion  in  a  foreign  land  is  dead ! 
And  the  soft  moon  rose  up  slowly,  and  calmly  she  looked 

down 
On  the  red   sand   of  the   battle-field,  with  bloody   corses 

strewn ; 
Yes,  calmly  on  that  dreadful  scene  her  pale  light  seemed 

to  shine, 
As    it    shone    on    distant  Bingen,  —  fair  Bingen   on   the 

Rhine,' 


— ^As^€<®4^*'^-— 


LOVE.  375 


Jean  Ing-eloiu. 
From  "Songs  of  Seven." 


— i~-e^cvxs^-3^— 


LEANED  out  of  window,  I  smelt  the  white  clover, 

Dark,  dark  was  the  garden,  I  saw  not  the  gate ; 
"Now   if    there    be   footsteps,    he   comes,   my   one 
lover  — 
Hush,   nightingale,   hush!     O,  sweet  nightingale, 
wait 

Till  I  listen  and  hear 
If  a  step  draweth  near ; 
For  my  love,  he  is  late! 


"  The  skies  in  the  darkness  stoop  nearer  and  nearer, 

A  cluster  of  stars  hangs  like  fruit  on  the  tree : 
The  fall  of  the  water  comes  sweeter,  comes  clearer;  — 
To  what  art  thou  listening,  and  what  dost  thou  see  ? 
Let  the  star-clusters  glow, 
Let  the  sweet  waters  flow, 
And  cross  quickly  to  me. 

"  You  night-moths  that  hover  where  honey  brims  over 

From  sycamore  blossoms,  or  settle,  or  sleep ; 

You  glow-worms,  sliine  out,  and  the  pathway  discover 

To  him  that  comes  darkling  along  the  rough  steep. 

Ah,  my  sailor,  make  haste. 

For  the  time  runs  to  waste. 

And  my  love  lieth  deep  — 


376 


EVELYN   HOPE. 


"  Too  deep  for  swift  telling ;  and  yet,  my  one  lover, 

I've  conned  thee  an  answer,  it  waits  thee  to-night." 
By  the  sycamore  passed  he,  and  through  the  white  clovei', 
And  all  the  sweet  speech  I  had  fashioned  took  flight, 
But  I'll  love  Iiim  more,  more 
Than  e'er  wife  loved  before, 
Be  the  days  dark  or  bright. 


— H>@»^«E%<©4)'^ — 


frowning. 


EAUTIFUL  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed  ; 

She  plucked  that  piece  of  geranium-flower. 
Beginning  to  die,  too,  in  the  glass. 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I  think; 
The  shutters  are  shut  —  no  light  may  pass, 

Save  two  long  rays  through  the  hinge's  chink 


Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died ! 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcly  heard  my  name  — 
It  was  not  her  time  to  love ;  beside. 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim. 
Duties  enough  and  little  cares  ; 

And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir  — 
Till  God's  hand  beckoned  unawares. 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her. 


EVELYN   HOPE.  377 


Is  it  too  late,  then,  Evelyn  Hope? 

What !  your  soul  was  pure  and  true  ; 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope, 

Made  you  of  ripirit,  fire,  and  dew; 
And  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old. 

And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged  so  wide, 
Each  was  naught  to  each,  must  I  be  told? 

We  were  fellow-mortals  —  naught  beside  ? 

No,  indeed!  for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant,  as  mighty  to  make, 
And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the  love ; 

I  claim  you  still,  for  my  own  love's  sake! 
Delayed,  it  may  be,  for  more  lives  yet, 

Thi'ough  worlds  I  shall  traverse  not  a  few; 
Much  is  to  learn,  and  much  to  forget, 

Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you. 

But  the  time  will  come  —  at  last  it  will  — 

When,  Evelyn  Hope,  what  meant,  I  shall  say. 
In  the  lower  earth  —  in  the  years  long  still  — 

That  body  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay ; 
Why  your  hair  was  amber  I  shall  divine, 

And  your  mouth  of  your  own  geranium's  red  - 
And  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in  fine. 

In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one's  stead. 

I  have  lived,  I  shall  say,  so  much  since  then, 

Given  up  myself  so  many  times. 
Gained  me  the  gains  of  various  men. 

Ransacked  the  ages,  spoiled  the  climes ; 


378  GIVING   IN   MARRIAGE. 


Yet  one  thing  —  one  —  in  my  soul's  full  seope. 

Either  I  missed  or  itself  missed  me  — 
And  I  want  and  find  you,  Evelyn  Hope! 

What  is  the  issue?  let  us  see! 

I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while; 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could  hold  — 
There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the  frank  young  smile. 

And  the  red  young  mouth,  and  the  hair's  young  gold. 
So  hush !  I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to  keep ; 

See,  I  shut  it  inside  the  sweet,  cold  hand. 
There,  that  is  our  secret!  go  to  sleep: 

You  will  wake,  and  remember,  and  understand. 


re. 


Jean  Ingelow. 
From  "  Songs  of  Seven. 


I O  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear, 
^Q)     To  watch,  !ind  then  to  lose : 
\&\  To  see  my  bright  ones  disappear, 
\^^^      Drawn  up  like  morning  dews. 
To  bear,  to  nurse,  to  reai% 

To  watch,  and  then  to  lose : 
This  have  I  done  when  God  di-ew  near 
Among  his  own  to  choose. 


GIVING   IN   MARRIAGE.  b/9 

To  heai",  to  heed,  to  wetl, 

And  with  thy  lord  depart, 
In  tears  that  he,  as  soon  as  shed, 

Will  let  no  longer  smart. 
To  hear,  to  heed,  to  wed, 

This  while  thou  didst,  I  smiled ; 
For  now  it  was  not  God  who  said, 

"  Mother,  give  ME  thy  child." 

O  fond,  O  fool  and  blind. 

To  God  I  gave  with  tears ; 
But  when  a  man  like  grace  would  find. 

My  soul  put  by  her  fears : 
O  fond,  O  fool  and  blind : 

God  guards  in  liappier  spheres ; 
That  man  will  guard  where  he  did  bind 

Is  hope  for  unknown  yeai-s. 

To  hear,  to  heed,  to  wed. 

Fair  lot  that  maidens  choose ; 
Thy  mother's  tenderest  words  are  said. 

Thy  face  no  more  she  views. 
Thy  mother's  lot,  my  dear, 

She  doth  it  naught  accuse : 
Her  lot  to  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear. 

To  love  —  and  then  to  lose. 


380 


THE   CIIII.DKEN'S    HOUR. 


Longfellow, 


dHHc 


ETWEEN  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 
When  the  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 

Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupations, 
That  is  known  as  the  children's  hour. 

I  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me 

The  patter  of  little  feet ; 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened. 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 


From  my  study  I  see  In  the  lamplight. 
Descending  the  broad  hall  stair, 

Grave  Alice,  and  laughing  Allegra, 
And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A  whisper  and  then  a  silence, 
Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes 

They  are  plotting  and  planning  together 
To  take  me  by  surprise. 


A  sudden  rush  from  tlie  stairway; 

A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall ; 
By  three  doors  left  unguarded 

They  enter  my  castle- wall. 


THE    children's    HOUR.  381 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret, 

O'er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair  ; 

If  I  try  to  escape,  they  surround  me  ; 
They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses, 

Their  arms  about  me  entwine, 
Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen, 

In  his  Mouse-Tower  on  the  Rhine. 

Do  you  think,  0  blue-eyed  banditti, 

Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall, 
Such  an  old  moustache  as  I  am 

Is  not  a  match  for  you  all  ? 

I  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 

And  will  not  let  you  depart. 
But  put  you  into  the  dungeon, 

In  the  round-tower  of  my  heart. 

And  there  will  I  keep  you  forever  — 

Yes,  forever  and  a  day  ; 
Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin, 

And  moulder  in  dust  away. 


882  YOUTH,   THAT   PUKSUEST. 


if.  J/[.  Jlilries 


e^JA 


OUTH,  that  pursuest,  with  such  eager  pace. 

Thy  even  way. 
Thou  pantest  on  to  win  a  mournful  race: 

Then  stay!  O  stay! 

Pause  and  hixuriate  on  thy  sunny  plain : 

Loiter  —  enjoy ; 
Once  past,  thou  never  wilt  come  back  again, 

A  second  boy. 


The  hills  of  manhood  wear  a  noble  face 

When  seen  from  far: 
The  mist  of  light  from  which  they  take  their  grace. 

Hides  what  they  are. 

The  dark  and  weary  path  tliose  cliffs  between 

Thou  canst  not  know ; 
And  hoAv  it  leads  to  regions  never  green, 

Dead  fields  of  snow. 

Pause  while  thou  may'st,  nor  deem  that  fate  thy  gain. 

Which,  all  too  fast, 
Will  drive  thee  forth  from  this  delicious  plain, 

A  man  at  last. 


AMONG   THE   BEAUTIFUL   PICTURES.  383 


^liae  Gary. 


MONG  the  beautiful  pictures 

That  hang  on  Memory's  wall, 
Is  one  of  a  dim  old  forest, 

That  seemeth  best  of  all ; 
Not  for  its  gnarled  oaks  olden, 

Dark  with  the  mistletoe ; 
Not  for  the  violets  golden 

That  sprinkle  the  ^ale  below; 

Not  for  the  milk-white  lilies 

That  lean  from  the  fragrant  ledge. 
Coquetting  all  day  with  the  sunbeams, 

And  stealing  their  golden  edge ; 
Not  for  the  vines  on  the  upland, 

Where  the  bright  red  berries  rest; 
Nor  the  pinks,  nor  the  jjale,  sweet  cowslip, 

It  seemeth  to  me  the  best. 

I  once  had  a  little  brother 

With  eyes  that  were  dark  and  deep; 
In  the  lap  of  that  old  dim  forest 

He  lieth  in  peace  asleep; 
Light  as  the  down  of  the  thistle. 

Free  as  the  winds  that  blow. 
We  roved  there  the  beautiful  summers, 

The  summers  of  long  ago ; 


384 


EACH   AND   ALL. 


But  his  feet  on  the  hills  grew  weary, 
And  one  of  the  autumn  eves 

I  made  for  my  little  brother 
A  bed  of  the  yellow  leaves. 

Sweetly  his  pale  arms  folded 

My  neck  in  a  meek  embrace, 
As  the  light  of  immortal  beauty 

Silently  covered  his  face ; 
And  when  the  arrows  of  sunset 

Lodged  in  the  tree-tops  bright. 
He  fell,  in  his  saint-like  beauty. 

Asleep  by  the  gates  of  light. 
Therefore  of  all  the  pictures 

That  hang  on  Memory's  wall, 
The  one  of  the  dim  old  forest 

Seemeth  the  best  of  all. 

— ^^=®^a£^«<K — 


■»38»'- 


Emerson. 


jITTLE  thinks,  in  tlie  field,  yon  red-cloaked  clown 
Of  thee  from  the  hill-top  looking  down; 
The  heifer  that  lows  in  the  upland  farm. 
Far-heard,  lows  not  thine  ear  to  charm  ; 
The  sexton,  tolling  his  bell  at  noon, 
Deems  not  that  great  Napoleon 
Stojis  his  horse,  and  lists  with  delight. 
Whilst  his  files  sweep  round  yon  Alpine  height. 


EACH   AND   ALL.  385 


Nor  knowest  thou  what  nrgament 
Thy  life  to  thy  neighbor's  creed  has  lent. 
All  are  needed  by  each  one  — 
Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone. 

I  thought  the  sparrow's  note  from  heaven, 
Singing  at  dawn  on  the  alder-bough; 
I  brought  him  home,  in  his  nest,  at  even  ; 
He  sings  the  song,  but  it  pleases  not  now ; 
For  I  did  not  bring  home  the  river  and  sky; 
He  sang  to  my  ear  —  they  sang  to  my  eye. 

The  delicate  shells  lay  on  the  shore ; 

The  bubbles  of  the  latest  wave 

Fresh  pearls  to  their  enamel  gave. 

And  the  bellowing  of  the  savage  sea 

Greeted  their  safe  escape  to  me. 

I  wiped  away  the  weeds  and  foam  — 

I  fetched  my  sea-born  treasures  home ; 

But  the  poor,  unsightly,  noisome  things, 

Had  left  their  beauty  on  the  shore, 

With  the  sun,  and  the  sand,  and  the  wild  uproar. 

The  lover  Avatched  his  graceful  maid. 

As  'mid  the  virgin  train  she  strayed ; 

Nor  knew  her  beauty's  best  attire 

Was  woven  still  by  the  snow-white  choir. 

At  last  she  came  to  his  hermitage. 

Like  the  bird  from  the  woodlands  to  the  cage  j 

The  gay  enchantment  was  undone — 

A  gentle  wife,  but  fairy  none. 


386  THE   PRESENT. 


Then  I  said :  "  I  covet  truth ; 

Beauty  is  unripe  childhood's  cheat ; 

I  leave  it  behind  with  the  games  of  youth." 

As  I  spoke,  beneath  my  feet 

The  ground-pine  curled  its  pretty  wreath, 

Running  over  the  club-moss  burrs; 

I  inhaled  the  violet's  breath ; 

Around  me  stood  the  oaks  and  firs ; 

Pine-cones  and  acorns  lay  on  the  ground; 

Over  me  soared  the  eternal  sky, 

Full  of  light  and  of  deity; 

Again  I  saw,  again  I  heard, 

The  rolling  river,  the  morning  bird; 

Beauty  through  my  senses  stole  — 

I  yielded  myself  to  the  perfect  whole. 


Jldelaide  fi.    (Procter 

O  not  crouch  to-day,  and  worship 

The  old  Past  whose  life  is  fled : 
Hush  your  voice  with  tender  reverence; 

Crowned  he  lies,  but  cold  and  dead  : 
For  the  Present  reigns  our  monarch, 

With  an  added  weight  of  hours : 
Honor  her,  for  she  is  mighty! 

Honor  her,  for  she  is  ours! 


THE   PRESENT.  387 


See,  the  shadows  of  his  heroes 

Girt  around  her  cloudy  throne ; 
Every  day  the  ranks  are  strengthened 

By  great  liearts  to  him  unknown ; 
Noble  things  the  great  Past  promised; 

Holy  dreams  both  strange  and  new; 
But  the  Present  shall  fulfil  them, 

What  he  promised,  she  shall  do. 

She  inlierits  all  his  treasures. 

She  is  heir  to  all  his  fame ; 
And  the  light  that  lightens  round  her 

Is  the  lustre  of  his  name. 
She  is  wise  with  all  his  wisdom, 

Living  on  his  grave  she  stands ; 
On  her  brow  she  bears  his  laurels, 

And  his  harvest  in  her  hands. 

Coward,  can  she  reign  and  conquer 

If  we  thus  her  glory  dim? 
Let  us  fight  for  her  as  nobly 

As  our  fathers  fought  for  him. 
God,  who  crowns  the  dying  ages. 

Bids  her  rule  and  us  obey : 
Bids  us  cast  our  lives  before  her. 

Bids  us  serve  the  great  To-day, 


--<3=«^^J?£^^^k- 


388  THE   BELLS. 


Edgar  fi.   (Poe, 


EAR  the  sledges  with  the  bells  — 

Silver  bells — 
What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 
With  a  crystalline  delight ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme. 
To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding-bells, 
Golden  bells! 
What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight 
From  the  molten-golden  notes! 
And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  tui'tle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 
On  the  moon ! 


THE   BELLS.  389 


Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 
What  a  gusli  of  euphony  voluminously  wells! 
How  it  swells! 
Ho^  it  dwells 
On  the  Future !  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells! 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells  — 
Brazen  bells ! 
What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 
Out  of  tune. 
In  iX  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire, 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavor. 
Now  —  now  to  sit  or  never. 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 
Of  despair! 


390  THE   BELLS. 


How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air! 
Yet  the  ear,  it  fully  knows. 
By  the  twanging 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows ; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling 
And  the  wrangling. 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  bells  - 
Of  the  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
In  the  clatnor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells ! 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells  — 
Iron  bells! 
What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  compels 
In  the  silence  of  the  night 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats, 

Is  a  gi'oan : 
And  the  people  — ah,  the  people  — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone. 
And  who,  tolfmg,  tolling,  tolling. 
In  that  muffled  monotone. 


THE   BELLS.  391 


Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone  — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman  — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human  — 

They  are  Ghouls! 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls ; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 

A  paean  from  the  bells ! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 
With  the  piBan  of  the  bells ! 
And  he  dances  and  he  yells; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  paean  of  the  bells  — 
Of  the  bells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  sort  Runic  rhj'me, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells  — ' 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells. 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells. 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells  — 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells. 
Bells,  bells,  bells, - 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells 


392 


RAIN   IN   SUMMER. 


^jongfelloiv 


OW  beautiful  is  tlie  rain! 
After  the  dust  and  the  heat. 
In  tlie  broad  and  fiery  street. 
In  the  narrow  lane, 
How  beautiful  is  the  rain! 


How  it  clatters  along  the  roofs, 

Like  the  tramp  of  hoofs ! 
How  it  gushes  and  struggles  out 
From  the  throat  of  the  overflowing  spout? 
Across  the  window-pane 
It  pours  and  pours ; 
And  swift  and  wide, 
With  a  muddy  tide, 
Like  a  river  down  the  gutter  roars 
The  rain,  the  welcome  rain! 


The  sick  man  from  his  chamber  looks 

At  the  twisted  brooks ; 

He  can  feel  the  cool 

Breath  of  each  little  pool  ; 

His  fevered  brain 

Grows  calm  again, 

And  he  breathes  a  blessing  on  the  rain. 


RAIN  IN  SUMMER.  393 


From  the  neighboring  school 

Come  the  boys. 

With  more  than  their  wonted  noise 

And  commotion; 

And  down  the  wet  streets 

Sail  their  mimic  fleets, 

Till  the  treacherous  pool 

Engulfs  them  in  its  whirling 

And  turbulent  ocean. 

In  the  country  on  every  side, 

Where  far  and  wide, 

Like  a  leopard's  tawny  and  spotted  hide 

Stretches  the  plain. 

To  the  dry  grass  and  the  drier  grain 

How  welcome  is  the  rain! 

In  the  furrowed  land 

The  toilsome  and  patient  oxen  stand; 

Lifting  the  yoke-encumbered  head, 

Witli  their  dilated  nostrils  spread, 

They  silently  inhale 

The  clover- scented  gale, 

And  the  vapors  that  arise 

From  the  well-watered  and  smoking  soil. 

For  this  rest  in  the  furrow  after  toil 

Their  lai-ge  and  lustrous  eyes 

Seem  to  thank  tlie  Lord, 

More  than  man's  spoken  word. 


394  ABOU   BEN   ADHEM   AND   THE   ANGEL. 

Near  at  hand, 

From  under  the  sheltering  trees, 

The  farmer  sees 

His  pastures  and  liis  fields  of  grain. 

As  tliey  bend  their  tops 

To  tlie  numberless  beating  drops 

Of  the  incessant  rain. 

He  counts  it  as  no  sin 

Tliat  he  sees  therein 

Only  his  own  thrift  and  gain. 


AImm  Bei  Ailke^M  ami  tl.e  Aif^L 

Leigh  Hunt 


BOU  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increase) 

Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace. 
And  saw  within  tlie  moonlight  in  his  room, 
XcCqfei}  Mailing  it  rich,  and  lilie  a  lily  in  Ijloom, 
K^     An  angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold :  — 

Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold, 
And  to  the  Presence  in  the  room  he  said, 
♦'  What  writest  thou?  "  — The  vision  raised  its  head 
And,  with  a  look  made  of  all  sweet  accord, 
Answered,  "  The  names  of  those  who  love  the  Lord." 
"And  is  mine  one?"  said  Abou.     "  Nay,  not  so," 
Replied  the  Angel.     Abou  spoke  more  low, 


THE  INCHCAPE   ROCK. 


395 


But  cheerly  still;  and  said,  "I  pray  thee,  then, 
Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow-men." 

The  Angel  wrote  and  vanished.     The  next  night 

It  came  again  witli  a  great  wakening  light, 

And  showed  the  names  whom  love  of  God  had  blessed, 

And  lo !  Ben  Adhem's  name  led  all  the  rest. 


-€='^=3?5HS'6^'^- 


if.  Southey 


-"ffSfis^ 


O  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea, 
The  ship  was  as  still  as  she  could  be, 
Her  sails  from  heaven  received  no  motion, 
IS^Her  keel  was  steady  in  the  ocean. 

Without  either  sign  or  sound  of  their  shock 
Tlie  waves  flow'd  over  the  Inchcape  Rock ; 
So  little  they  rose,  so  little  they  fell, 
They  did  not  move  the  Inchcape  Bell. 

The  good  old  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok 
Had  placed  4hat  bell  on  the  Inchcape  Rock ; 
On  a  buoy  in  the  storm  it  floated  and  swung, 
And  over  the  waves  its  warning  rung. 

When  the  Rock  was  hid  by  the  surges'  swell. 
The  Mariners  heard  the  warning  bell; 


396  THE   INCHCAPE   ROCK. 


And  then  they  knew  the  perilous  Rock, 
And  blest  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok. 


The  sun  in  heaven  was  shining  gay, 

All  things  were  joyful  on  that  day ; 

The  sea-birds  screamed  as  they  wheeled  round. 

And  there  was  joyance  in  their  sound. 

The  buoy  of  the  Inchcape  Bell  was  seen 
A  darker  speck  on  the  ocean  green; 
Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  walked  his  deck, 
And  he  fixed  his  eye  on  a  darker  speck. 

He  felt  the  cheering  power  of  spring, 
It  made  him  whistle,  it  made  him  sing; 
His  heart  was  mirthful  to  excess. 
But  the  Rover's  mirth  was  wickedness. 

His  eye  was  on  the  Inchcape  float ; 
Quoth  he,  "My  men,  put  out  the  boat, 
And  row  me  to  the  Inchcape  Rock, 
And  I'll  plague  the  priest  of  Abcriirothok." 

The  boat  is  lowered,  the  boatmen  row. 

And  to  the  Inchcape  Rock  they  go; 

Sir  Ralph  bent  over  from  the  boat. 

And  he  cut  the  bell  from  the  Inchcape  float. 

Down  sunk  the  bell  with  a  gurgling  sound. 
The  bubbles  rose  and  burst  around ; 


THE  INCHCAPE   KOCK.  397 

Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "  The  next  who  comes  to  the  Rock 
Won't  bless  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok." 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  sailed  away, 
He  scoured  the  seas  for  many  a  day ; 
And  now  grown  rich  with  plundered  store. 
He  steers  his  course  for  Scotland's  shore. 

So  thick  a  haze  o'erspreads  the  sky 
They  cannot  see  the  sun  on  high ; 
The  wind  hath  Ijlown  a  gale  all  day. 
At  evening  it  hath  died  away. 

On  the  deck  the  Rover  takes  his  stand, 
So  dark  it  is  they  see  no  land. 
Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "It  will  be  lighter  soon. 
For  tliere  is  the  dawn  of  the  I'ising  moon." 

"  Canst  hear,"  said  one,  "  the  breakers  roar  ? 
For  methinks  we  should  be  near  the  shore; 
Now  where  we  are  I  cannot  tell, 
But  i  wish  I  could  hear  the  Inchcape  Bell.'' 

They  hear  no  sound,  the  swell  is  strong; 
Though  the  wind  hath  follen,  they  drift  along. 
Till  the  vessel  strikes  with  a  shivering  shock; 
Cried  they,  "  It  is  the  Inchcape  Rock ! " 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  tore  his  hair. 
He  curst  himself  in  his  despair; 


898 


THE   RAINBOW. 


The  waves  rush  in  on  every  side, 
The  ship  is  sinking  beneath  the  tide. 

But  even  in  his  dying  fear 
One  dreadful  sound  could  the  Rover  hear, 
A  sound  as  if  with  the  Inchcape  Bell 
The  fiends  below  were  ringing  his  knell. 


-H^^t+' 


/.  Keble. 


'      ■  •  I  Sw"! 


FRAGMENT  of  a  rainbow  bright 
Through  the  moist  air  I  see. 

All  dark  and  damp  on  yonder  height, 
All  bright  and  clear  to  me. 

An  hour  ago  the  storm  was  here, 
The  gleam  was  far  behind, 

So  Avill  our  joys  and  grief  appear. 
When  earth  has  ceased  to  blind. 


Grief  will  be  joy  if  on  its  edge 
Fall  soft  that  holiest  ray, 

Joy  will  be  grief  if  no  faint  pledge 
Be  there  of  heavenly  day. 


ONLY   A   CUKL.  399 


J/Lrs.   frowning 


RIENDS  of  faces  unknown,  and  a  land 

Unvisited  over  the  sea, 
Who  tell  me  how  lonely  you  stand 
With  a  single  gold  curl  in  the  hand, 

Held  up  to  be  looked  at  by  me,  — 

While  you  ask  me  to  ponder  and  say 

What  a  father  and  mother  can  do 
With  the  bright  fellow-locks  put  away. 
Out  of  reach,  beyond  kiss,  in  the  clay, 
Where  the  violets  press  nearer  than  you, 

Shall  I  speak  like  a  poet,  or  run 
Into  weak  woman's  tears  for  relief? 

Oh,  children  —  I  never  lost  one ; 

Yet  my  arm 's  round  my  own  little  son, 
And  Love  knows  the  secret  of  grief. 

And  I  feel  what  it  must  be  and  is. 
When  God  draws  a  new  angel  so. 

Through  the  house  of  a  man  up  to  His. 

With  a  murmur  of  music  you  miss. 
And  the  rapture  of  light  you  forego : 


iOO  ONLY   A   CUKL. 


How  you  think,  staring  on  at  the  door 

Where  the  face  of  your  angel  flashed  in, 
That  its  brightness,  familiar  before, 
Burns  off  from  you  ever  the  more 
For  the  dark  of  your  sorrow  and  sin. 

"God  lent  him  and  takes  him,"  you  sigh. 

Nay,  there  let  me  break  with  your  pain : 
God's  generous  in  giving,  say  I, 
And  the  thing  wliich  he  gives,  I  deny 

That  he  ever  can  take  back  ao^ain. 


He  gives  what  he  gives :  I  appeal 

To  all  who  bear  babes ;  in  the  hour 
When  the  veil  of  the  body  we  feel 
Rent  around  us  —  while  torments  reveal 
The  motherhood's  advent  in  power,  — 


And  the  babe  cries  —  has  each  of  us  known 

By  apocalypse  —  God  being  there 
Full  in  nature  —  the  child  is  our  own, 
Life  of  life,  love  of  love,  moan  of  moan, 
Through  all  changes,  all  times,  everywhere,- 


He  's  ours,  and  forever.    Believe, 

O  father!  —  O  mother,  look  back 
To  the  first  love's  assurance!    To  give 
Means,  with  God,  not  to  tempt  or  deceive. 
With  a  cup  thrust  in  Benjamin's  sack. 


ONLY   A   CURL.  401 


He  gives  what  he  gives.     Be  content! 

He  assumes  nothing  given  —be  sure! 
God  lend  ?     Where  the  usurers  lent 
In  his  temple,  indignant  he  went. 

And  scourged  away  all  those  impure. 

He  lends  not,  but  gives  to  the  end. 
As  he  loves  to  the  end.     If  it  seem 

That  he  draws  back  a  gift,  comprehend 

'Tis  to  add  to  it,  rather,  amend, 
And  finish  it  up  to  your  dream,  — 

Or  keep,  as  a  mother  may,  toys 

Too  costly,  though  given  by  herself. 

Till  the  room  shall  be  stiller  from  noise. 

And  the  children  more  fit  for  such  joys. 

Kept  over  their  heads  on  the  shelf. 

So  look  up,  friends!  you  who  indeed 

Have  possessed  in  your  house  a  sweet  piece 
Of  the  heaven  which  men  strive  for,  must  need 
Be  more  earnest  than  others  are  —  speed 
Where  they  loiter,  persist  where  they  cease. 

You  know  how  one  angel  smiles  there,  — 

Then,  courage.     'Tis  easy  for  you 
To  be  drawn  by  a  single  gold  hair 
Of  that  curl,  from  earth's  storm  and  despair 
To  the  safe  place  above  us.     Adieu. 


402  DOUGLAS,  TENDER  AND  TRUE. 


aii  Trie. 

(X>inah  J\£aria  Jliuloch 


"Dowglas,  Dowglas,  tendir  and  treu." 

OULD  ye  come  back  to  me,  Douglas,  Douglas, 

In  the  old  likeness  that  I  knew, 
I  would  be  so  faithful,  so  loving,  Douglas, 

Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Never  a  scornful  word  should  grieve  ye, 
I'd  smile  on  ye  sweet  as  the  angels  do: 

Sweet  as  your  smile  on  me  shone  ever, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

0  to  call  back  the  days  that  are  not! 

My  eyes  were  blinded,  your  words  were  few; 
Do  you  know  the  truth  now  up  in  heaven, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true? 

1  never  was  worthy  of  you,  Douglas, 
Not  half  worthy  the  like  of  you ; 

Now  all  men  beside  seem  to  me  like  shadows  — 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Stretch  out  your  hand  to  me,  Douglas,  Douglas, 
Drop  forgiveness  from  heaven  like  dew. 

As  I  lay  my  heart  on  your  dead  heart,  Douglas, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 


RING   OUT,    WILD   BELLS.  403 


Elif  ©Ml,  WM  Bells, 

Tennyson. 


TNG  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flyino^  cloud,  the  frosty  light; 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night  — 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new  — 
Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow : 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go  ; 

Ring  out  the  ftilse,  ring  in  the  true. 


Ring  out  the  gi'ief  that  saps  the  mind, 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more ; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause, 
And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife ; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life. 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times ; 
Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes, 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 


404 


STRIVE,    WAIT,    AND   PRAY. 


Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood. 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite : 
Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 

Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease, 
Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold ; 
Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old. 

Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free. 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land  — 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 


— M>^>^£EE4@^H— 


Jldelaide  Jl.  (Procter 


TRIVE :  yet  I  do  not  promise 

The  prize  you  dream  of  to-day 
Will  not  fade  when  you  think  to  grasp  it. 

And  melt  in  your  hand  away; 
But  another  and  holier  treasure, 

You  would  now  perchance  disdain, 
Will  come  when  your  toil  is  over. 

And  pay  you  for  all  j^our  pain. 


BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK.  405 

Wait :  yet  I  do  not  tell  yon 

The  hour  you  long  for  now 
Will  not  come  with  its  radifince  vanished, 

And  a  shadow  upon  its  brow ; 
Yet,  far  through  the  misty  future, 

With  a  crown  of  starry  light, 
An  hour  of  joy  you  know  not 

Is  winging  her  silent  flight. 

Pi-ay :  though  the  gift  you  ask  for 

May  never  comfort  your  fears  — 
May  never  repay  your  pleading  — 

Yet  pray,  and  with  hopeful  tears ; 
An  answer,  not  that  you  long  for, 

But  diviner  will  come  one  day; 
Your  eyes  are  too  dim  to  see  it. 

Yet  strive,  and  wait,  and  pray. 


Tennyson 


REAK,  bi'eak,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  sea ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay! 


406  THE   GIFTS   OF   GOD. 


And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  the  haven  under  the  hill ; 
But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand. 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still! 

Break,  break,  break. 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  sea! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 
Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


ru  mtu  @f  io4e 


Herbert. 


a  HEN  God  at  first  made  man, 
D     Having  a  glass  of  blessings  standing  by, 

"  Let  us,"  said  he,  "  pour  on  him  all  we  can  j 
Let  the  world's  riches,  which  dispersed  lie. 
Contract  into  a  span." 

So  strength  first  made  a  way ; 
Then  beaiity  flowed,  then  wisdom,  honor,  pleasm'e; 
When  almost  all  was  out,  God  made  a  stay, 
Perceiving  that  alone,  of  all  his  treasure, 

Rest  in  the  bottom  lay. 

"  For  if  I  should,"  said  he, 
"Bestow  this  jewel  also  on  my  creature. 
He  would  adore  my  gifts  instead  of  me, 
And  rest  in  Nature,  not  the  God  of  Nature ; 

So  both  should  losers  be. 


INCOMPLETENESS.  407 


"  Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest. 
But  keep  them  with  repining  restlessness ; 
Let  him  be  sick  and  weary,  that  at  least, 
If  goodness  lead  him  not,  j'et  weariness 

May  toss  him  to  my  breast." 


JLdelaide  Jl.   (Procter. 


OTHING  resting  in  its  own  completeness. 
Can  have  worth  or  beauty :  but  alone 

Because  it  leads  and  tends  to  farther  sweetness. 
Fuller,  higher,  deeper,  than  its  own. 

Spring's  real  glory  dwells  not  in  the  meaning, 
Gracious  though  it  be,  of  her  blue  hours ; 

But  is  hidden  in  her  tender  leaning 
Toward  the  summer's  richer  wealth  of  flowers 


Dawn  is  fair,  because  her  mists  fade  slowly 
Into  day  which  floods  the  world  with  light; 

Twilight's  mystery  is  so  sweet  and  holy, 
Just  because  it  ends  in  starry  night. 

Life  is  only  bright  when  it  proceedeth 
Toward  a  truer,  deeper  Life  above: 

Human  love  is  sweetest  when  it  leadeth 
To  a  more  divine  and  perfect  love. 


408 


THE   KETUKN   OF   YOUTH. 


Childhood's  smiles  unconscious  graces  borrow 
From  strife  that  in  a  far-off  future  lies  ; 

And  angel  glances  veiled  now  by  life's  sorrow, 
Draw  our  hearts  to  some  beloved  eyes. 

Learn  the  mystery  of  progression  duly : 
Do  not  call  each  glorious  change  decay; 

But  know  we  only  hold  our  treasures  truly, 
When  it  seems  as  if  they  jjassed  away. 

Nor  dare  to  blame  God's  gifts  for  incompleteness ; 

In  that  want  their  beauty  lies;  they  roll 
Toward  some  infinite  depth  of  love  and  sweetness. 

Bearing  onward  man's  reluctant  soul. 


•+^^&+' 


^ryant. 


Y  friend,  thou  sorrowest  for  thy  golden  prime. 

For  thy  fair  youthful  years,  too  swift  of  flight ; 
'Thou  musest  with  wet  eyes  upon  the  time 

Of  cheerful  hopes    that  filled  the  world  with 
light,  — 
Years  when  thy  heart  Avas  bold,  thy  hand  was 
strong. 

And  quick  the  thouglit  that  moved  thy  tongue  to  speak, 
And  willing  ftiith  was  thine,  and  scorn  of  wrong 
Summoned  the  sudden  crimson  to  thy  cheek. 


THE  RETURN  OF  YOUTH.  409 

Thou  lookest  forward  on  the  coming  days. 

Shuddering  to  feel  their  shadow  o'er  thee  creep: 
A  path,  thick-set  with  changes  and  decays, 

Slo2)es  downwa'-d  to  the  place  of  common  sleep; 
And  they  who  walked  with  thee  in  life's  first  stage, 

Leave,  one  by  one,  thy  side;  and,  waiting  near, 
Thou  seest  the  sad  companions  of  thy  age,  — 

Dull  love  of  rest,  and  weariness,  and  fear. 

Yet  grieve  thou  not,  nor  think  thy  youth  is  gone, 

Nor  deem  that  glorious  season  e'er  could  die ; 
Thy  pleasant  youth,  a  little  while  withdrawn. 

Waits  on  the  horizon  of  a  brighter  sky ;  — 
Waits  like  the  morn,  that  folds  her  wing  and  hides, 

Till  the  slow  stars  bring  back  her  dawning  hour; 
Waits  like  the  vanislied  Spring,  that  slumbering  bides 

Her  own  sweet  time  to  waken  bud  and  flower. 

There  shall  he  welcome  thee,  when  thou  shalt  stand 

On  his  bright  morning  hills,  with  smiles  more  sweet 
Than  when  at  first  he  took  thee  by  the  hand, 

Through  the  fair  earth  to  lead  thy  tender  feet. 
He  shall  bring  back,  but  brighter,  broader  still. 

Life's  early  glory  to  thine  eyes  again; 
Still  clothe  thy  spirit  with  new  strength,  and  fill 

Thy  leaping  heart  with  warmer  love  than  then. 

Hast  thou  not  glimpses,  in  the  twilight  here. 
Of  mountains  where  immortal  morn  prevails? 

Comes  there  not  through  the  silence,  to  thine  ear, 
A  gentle  rustling  of  the  morning  gales? 


410  LABOR   AND   REST. 


A  murmuv,  wafted  from  that  glorious  shore, 
Of  streams  that  water  banks  forever  fair; 

And  voices  of  the  loved  ones  gone  before, 
More  musical  in  that  celestial  air? 


Lal@f  aid  E©ste 

(X>inah  J^aria,  Jvluloch, 


WO  hands  upon  the  breast, 

And  labor 's  done ; 
Two  pale  feet  crossed  in  rest, 

The  race  is  run ; 
Two  eyes  with  coin-weights  shut. 

And  all  tears  cease ; 
Two  lips  wliere  gi'ief  is  mute. 

And  wrath  at  peace!  — 
So  pray  wo  oftentimes,  mourning  our  lot,  — 
God  in  his  mercy  answereth  not. 

Two  hands  to  work  addressed 

Aye  for  his  praise ; 
Two  feet  that  never  I'est, 

Walking  his  ways; 
Two  eyes  that  look  above, 

Still  through  all  tears  ; 
Two  lips  that  breathe  but  love. 

Nevermore  fears : 
So  px'ay  we  afterward  low  on  our  knees ;  — 

Pardon  those  erring  prayers! 
Father,  hear  these ! 


THE  SANDS   O'   DEE.  411 


s  ©*  Be©. 

C.  Kingsley, 


MARY,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home. 
And  call  the  cattle  home. 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
Across  the  sands  o'  Dee !  " 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank  with  foam, 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  creeping  tide  came  hp  along  the  sand. 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand, 
And  round  and  round  the  sand. 
As  far  as  eye  could  see ; 
The  blinding  mist  came  down  and  hid  the  land  — 
And  never  home  caiiie  she. 

Oh,  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair?  — 
A  tress  o'  golden  hair, 
O'  drowned  maiden's  hair. 
Above  the  nets  at  sea. 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee. 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam. 
The  cruel  crawling  foam. 
The  cruel  hungry  foam, 
To  her  grave  beside  the  sea ; 
But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle  home, 
Across  the  sands  o'  Dee. 


412  THE   WRECK   OF   THE  HESPERUS. 


Th.%  Wreck  @f  IM  Eisperas, 

Long-Jellozv, 

/^  T  was  the  scliooner  Hesperus, 
^Tir      That  sailed  the  wintry  sea; 
^^^  And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughter. 
To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy  flax. 

Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 
And  her  bosom  white  as  the  hawthorn  buds. 

That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 

The  skipper  he  stood  beside  the  helm. 

His  pipe  was  in  his  mouth, 
And  he  watched  how  the  veering  flaw  did  blow 

The  smoke  now  west,  now  south. 

Then  up  and  spake  an  old  sailor, 

Had  sailed  the  Spanish  Main  : 
"  I  pray  thee  jiut  into  yonder  port, 

For  I  fear  the  hurricane. 

"  Last  night  the  moon  had  a  golden  ring, 

And  to-night  no  moon  we  see !  " 
The  skipper  he  blew  a  whiff  from  his  pipe, 

And  a  scornful  laugh  laughed  he. 


THE   WRECK   OF   THE   HESPERUS.  413 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 

A  gale  from  the  north-east ; 
The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 

And  the  billows  frothed  like  yeast. 

Down  came  the  storm  and  smote  amain 

The  vessel  in  its  strength ; 
She  shuddered  and  paused  like  a  frighted  steed, 

Then  leaped  her  cable's  length. 

"  Come  hither!  come  hither!  my  little  daughter. 

And  do  not  tremble  so; 
For  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale 

That  ever  wind  did  blow." 


He  wi'apped  her  warm  in  his  seaman's  coat, 

Against  the  stinging  blast ; 
He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar. 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 


"O  father!  I  hear  the  church-bells  ring, 

O  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
"  'Tis  a  fog-bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast! " 

And  he  steered  for  the  open  sea. 

"O  father!  I  hear  the  sound  of  guns, 

O  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
"  Some  ship  in  distress  that  cannot  live 

In  such  an  angry  sea !  " 


414  THE   "WRECK   OF   THE  HESPERUS- 

"O  father!  I  see  a  gleaming  light, 

O  say,  what  may  it  be?  " 
But  the  father  answered  never  a  word,  — 

A  frozen  corpse  was  he. 


Lashed  to  the  helm,  all  stiff  and  stark. 

With  his  face  turned  to  the  skies, 
The  lantern  gleamed  through  the  gleaming  snow 

On  his  fixed  and  glassy  eyes. 

Then  the  maiden  clasped  her  hands  and  prayed 

That  saved  she  might  be ; 
And  she  thought  of  Christ  who  stilled  the  waves 

On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 

And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and  drear, 
Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow. 

Like  a  sheeted  ghost  tlie  vessel  swept 
Towards  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe. 

And  ever  the  fitful  gusts  between 

A  sound  came  from  the  land ; 
It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf 

On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea-sand. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows. 

She  drifted  a  dreary  wreck, 
And  a  whooping  billow  swept  the  crew 

Like  icicles  from  her  deck. 


THE   WRECK   OF  THE  HESPERUS.  415 


She  struck  where  the  white  and  fleecy  waves 

Looked  soft  as  carded  wool. 
But  the  cruel  rocks  they  gored  her  sides 

Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

Her  rattling  shrouds  all  sheathed  in  ice. 
With  the  masts  went  by  the  board ; 

Like  a  vessel  of  glass  she  stove  and  sank. 
Ho!  ho!  the  breakers  roared. 

At  daybreak  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A  fisherman  stood  aghast. 
To  see  the  form  of  a  maiden  fair 

Lashed  close  to  a  drifting  mast. 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes ; 
And  he  saw  her  hair  like  the  brown  sea-w<>€d, 

On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 

In  the  midnight  and  the  snow ; 
Heaven  save  us  all  from  a  death  like  this 

On  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe! 


-><^=«^^egs^?«^*— 


416 


THE  SUMMER  SHOWEIt. 


2".  S-  ^ead. 


"^-f-^S^cey^-*^ 


EFORE  the  stout  harvesters  falleth  the  grain, 
As  when   the  strong    storm-wind   is   reaping  the 

plain, 
And  loiters  the  boy  in  the  briery  lane ; 
But  yonder  aslant  comes  the  silvery  rain, 

Like  a  long  line  of  spears  brightly  burnished 

and  tall. 


Adown  the  white  highway  like  cavalry  fleet, 
It  dashes  the  dust  with  its  numberless  feet. 
Like  a  murmurless  school,  in  their  leafy  retreat, 
The  wild  birds  sit  listening  the  drops  round  them  beat; 
And  the  boy  crouches  close  to  the  blackberry  wall. 

The  swallows  alone  take  the  storm  on  their  wing, 
And,  taunting  the  tree-sheltered  laborers,  sing, 
Like  pebbles  the  rain  breaks  the  face  of  the  spring. 
While  a  bubble  darts  up  from  each  widening  ring; 
And  the  boy  in  dismay  hears  the  loud  shower  fall, 


But  soon  are  the  harvesters  tossing  their  sheaves ; 
The  robin  darts  out  from  his  bower  of  leaves ; 
The  wren  peereth  forth  from  the  moss-covered  eaves; 
And  the  rain-spattered  urchin  now  gladly  perceives 
Th.at  the  beautiful  bow  bendeth  over  them  all. 


^. 


THE   OLD   man's   comforts.  417 

J^.    Bouthey. 


^^  OU  are  old.  Father  William,"  the  young  man  cried, 
"  The  few  locks  which  are  left  you  are  gray  ; 
You  are  hale.  Father  William,  a  hearty  old  man. 
Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray." 

"  In  the  days  of  my  youth,"  Father  William  re- 
plied, 

"  I  remembered  that  youth  would  tly  fast. 
And  abused  not  my  health  and  my  vigor  at  first, 
That  I  never  might  need  them  at  last." 

"You  are  old.  Father  William,"  the  young  man  cried, 
"  And  pleasures  with  youth  pass  away; 

And  yet  you  lament  not  the  days  that  are  gone, 
Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  j^ray." 

"  In  the  days  of  my  youth,"  Father  William  rej)lied, 
"  I  remembered  that  youth  could  not  last; 

I  tliought  of  the  future  whatever  I  did. 
That  I  never  might  grieve  for  the  past." 

"  You  are  old.  Father  AVilliam,"  the  young  man  cried, 

"  And  life  must  be  hastening  away ; 
You  are  clieerful,  and  love  to  converse  upon  death, 

Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray." 


418  AUTUMN. 


"I  am  cheei'fnl,  young  man,"  Father  William  rejilietl, 

"  Let  the  cause  thy  attention  engage; 
In  the  days  of  my  yojith  I  remembered  my  God, 

And  he  hath  not  forgotten  my  age." 


(P.   g.   Shelley. 


'HE  warm  sun  is  failing,  the  bleak  wind  is  wailing, 
I  The  bare  boughs  are  sighing,  the  pale  flowers  are 
dying; 
And  the  j^ear 
<^)  On  the  earth,  her  death-bed,  in  a  shroud  of  leaves 
dead. 
Is  lying. 
Come,  Months,  come  away, 
From  November  to  May, 
In  your  saddest  array,  — 
Follow  the  bier 
Of  the  dead  cold  year. 
And  like  dim  shadows  watch  by  her  sepulchre. 

The  chill  rain  is  falling,  the  nipt  worm  is  crawling, 
The  rivers  are  swelling,  the  thunder  is  knelling 

For  the  year ; 
The  blithe  swallows  are  flown,  and  the  lizards  eacltgone 

To  his  dwellino;. 


TO    DAFFODILS.  419 


Come,  Months,  come  away  ; 
Put  on  white,  black,  and  gray ; 
Let  your  light  sisters  play  ; 
Ye,  follow  the  bier 
Of  the  dead  cold  year. 
And  make  her  grave  green  with  tear  on  tear. 


— ■<s=?^ — • 


if.  Herndk 


AIR  daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 
^     You  haste  away  so  soon  ; 
As  yet  the  early  rising  sun 
Has  not  attained  his  noon : 

Stay,  stay. 
Until  the  hastening  day 

Has  run 
But  to  the  even-song ; 
And  having  prayed  together,  we 
Will  go  with  you  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  you  ; 

We  have  as  short  a  spring ; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay 

As  you  or  any  thing : 
We  die. 


420 


THE   FOUNTAIN. 


As  3' our  hours  do ;  and  dry 

Away 
Like  the  summer's  rain, 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning  dew. 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 


-«»sei' 


James  i^iisseii  Loiyeii 


NTO  the  sunshine, 
Full  of  the  light, 

Leaping  and  flashing 
From  morn  till  night! 

Into  the  moonlight, 

Whiter  than  snow, 
Waving  so  flower-like 
When  the  winds  blow! 


Into  the  starlight. 
Rushing  in  spray, 

Happy  at  midnight, 
Happy  by  day! 


THE   FOUNTAIN.  421 


Ever  in  motion, 

Blithesome  and  cheery, 
Still  climbing  heavenward, 

Never  aweary  ; 

Glad  of  all  weathers, 
Still  seeming  best, 

Upward  or  downward 
Motion  thy  rest ; 

Full  of  a  nature 
Nothing  can  tame. 

Changed  every  moment. 
Ever  the  same; 

Ceaseless  aspiring. 
Ceaseless  content, 

Darkness  or  sunshine 
Thy  element ; 

Glorious  fountain ! 

Let  my  heart  be 
Fresh,  changeful,  constant. 

Upward  like  thee  ! 


422 


life's"good-mokning." 


^.  Jonson, 


T  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 
In  bulk,  doth  make  man  better  be  ; 
Or  standing  long  an  oak  three  hundred  year. 
To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and  sere : 
A  lily  of  a  day 
Is  fairer  far  in  May, 
Although  it  fall  and  die  that  night  — 
It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  Light. 
In  small  proportions  we  just  beauty  see; 
And  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect  be. 


Jhrma  Letitia   ffarha-'dd 


IFE!  we've  been  long  together. 

Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy  weather  ; 

'Tis  hard  to  part  when  friends  are  dear ; 

Perhaps  'twill  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear ; 

Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning. 

Choose  thine  own  time; 
Say  not  Good-Night,  but  in  some  brighter  clime 

Bid  me  Good-Morning. 


HASTE  not!   rest  NOT.!  423 


Goethe. 
(Anon.  Translation.) 


ITHOUT  haste!  without  rest! 
^Bind  the  motto  to  thy  breast; 
y^WJUA  Bear  it  with  thee  as  a  spell; 

Storm  or  sunshine,  guard  it  well! 

Heed  not  flowers  that  'round  thee  bloom. 

Bear  it  onward  to  the  tomb ! 

Haste  not !     Let  no  thoughtless  deed 
Mar  for  aye  the  spirit's  speed ! 
Ponder  well,  and  know  the  right. 
Onward  then,  with  all  thy  might! 
Haste  not!  yeai"s  can  ne'er  atone 
For  one  reckless  action  done. 

Rest  not !     Life  is  sweeping  by, 
Go  and  dare,  before  you  die  ; 
Something  mighty  and  sublime 
Leave  behind  to  conquer  time! 
Glorious  'tis  to  live  for  aye. 
When  these  forms  have  passed  away. 

Haste  not!  rest  not!  calmly  wait; 
Meekly  bear  the  storms  of  fate! 
Duty  be  thy  polar  guide ;  — 
Do  the  right  whate'er  betide! 
Haste  not!  rest  not!  conflicts  past, 
God  shall  crown  thy  work  at  last. 


424  BRINGING   OUK  SHEAVES   "WITH   US. 


Elizabeth  -/Ikers. 


I  HE  time  for  toil  has  passed,  and  night  has  come,  - 

The  last  and  saddest  of  the  harvest  eves ; 
Worn  out  with  labor  long  and  wearisome, 
V^^  Drooping  and  faint,  the  reapers  hasten  home. 
Each  laden  with  his  sheaves. 

Last  of  the  laborers,  thy  feet  I  gain. 
Lord  of  the  harvest!  and  my  spirit  grieves 
That  I  am  burdened,  not  so  much  with  grain, 
As  with  a  heaviness  of  heart  and  brain ;  — 
Master,  behold  my  sheaves! 

Few,  light,  and  worthless,  —  yet  tlieir  trifling  weight 

Tin'ough  all  my  frame  a  weary  aching  leaves; 
For  long  I  struggled  with  my  hopeless  fate. 
And  stayed  and  toiled  till  it  was  dark  and  late  — 
Yet  these  are  all  my  sheaves. 

Full  well  I  know  I  have  more  tai-es  than  wheat  — 
Brambles  and  flowers,  dry  stalks  and  witliered  leaves: 

Wherefore  I  blush  and  weep,  as  at  thy  feet 

1  kneel  down  reverently  and  repeat, 
"Master,  behold  my  sheaves!  " 

I  know  those  lilossoms,  clustering  heavily. 
With  evening  dew  upon  their  folded  leaves. 


THE   CIIAMBEUED   NAUTILUS.  425 

Can  claim  no  value  or  utility,  — 
Therefore  shall  fragrancy  and  beauty  be 
The  glory  of  my  sheaves. 

So  do  I  gather  strength  and  hope  anew ; 

For  well  I  know  thy  patient  love  perceives 
Not  what  I  did,  but  what  I  strove  to  do,  — 
And  though  the  full  ripe  ears  be  sadly  few, 

Thou  wilt  accept  my  sheaves. 

^»i:^t'^ 


Oliver   W.  Holmes. 


HIS  is  the  ship  of  pearl  wliich,  poets  feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main, — 

The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purple  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  syren  sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 
Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  stream^ 
ino;  hair. 


Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl : 
Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl ! 
And  every  chambered  cell 
Where  its  dim-dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell. 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 


426  "  THE   CHAMBERED   NAUTILUS. 

Before  thee  lies  revealed  — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed. 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil : 

Still  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new. 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through. 

Built  up  its  idle  door. 
Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old  no 
more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea. 

Cast  from  her  lap  forlorn! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 
Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice  that 
sings : 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions.  O  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll ! 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast. 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free. 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  seal 


THE  OLD   WOULD   AND   THE   NEW.  427 


Tiki  @M  Worfi  mi  tU  Mw. 

Georg-e  Berkeley 


HE  Muse,  disgusted  at  an  age  and  clime 
Barren  of  every  glorious  theme, 

In  distant  lands  now  waits  a  better  time 
Producing  subjects  woithy  fame: 

In  happy  climes  where,  from  the  genial  sun 
And  virgin  earth,  such  scenes  ensue  ; 

The  force  of  art  by  nature  seems  outdone, 
And  fancied  beauties  by  the  true : 


In  happy  climes  the  seat  of  innocence, 
Where  nature  guides  and  virtue  rules  ; 

Where  men  shall  not  impose  for  truth  and  sense 
The  pedantry  of  courts  and  schools : 

There  shall  be  sung  another  golden  age, 

The  rise  of  empire  and  of  arts ; 
The  good  and  great  inspiring  epic  rage, 

The  wisest  heads  and  noblest  hearts. 

Net  such  as  Europe  breeds  in  her  decay,  — 
Such  as  she  bred  when  fresh  and  young. 

When  heavenly  flame  did  animate  her  clay. 
By  future  poets  shall  be  sung. 


428  A   STRIP   OF   BLUE. 


Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way; 

The  four  first  acts  already  past, 
A  fifth  shall  close  the  drama  with  the  day; 

Time's  noblest  offspring  is  his  last. 


fe   of  B^M©, 

Lucy  Larcom, 

DO  not  own  an  inch  of  land, 

But  all  I  see  is  mine  — 
The  orchard  and  the  mowing-fields, 

The  lawns  and  gardens  fine. 
The  winds  my  tax-collectors  are, 
They  bring  me  tithes  divine  — 
Wild  scents  and  subtle  essences, 

A  tribute  rare  and  free : 
And  more  magnificent  than  all. 

My  window  keeps  for  me 
A  glimpse  of  blue  immensity  — 
A  little  strip  of  sea. 

Richer  am  I  than  he  who  owns 

Great  fleets  and  argosies ; 
I  have  a  share  in  every  ship 

Won  by  the  inland  breeze 
To  loiter  on  yon  airy  road 

Above  the  apple-trees. 


A   STRIP   OF    BLUB.  429 


I  freight  them  with  my  untold  dreams, 
Eacli  bears  my  own  picked  crew ; 

And  nobler  cargoes  wait  for  them 
Than  ever  India  knew  — 

My  ships  that  sail  into  the  East 
Across  that  outlet  blue. 

Sometimes  they  seem  like  living  shapes  ■ 

The  people  of  the  sky  — 
Guests  in  white  raiment  coming  down 

From  Heaven,  which  is  close  by : 
I  call  them  by  familiar  names, 

As  one  by  one  draws  nigh. 
So  white,  so  light,  so  spirit-like. 

From  violet  mists  they  bloom! 
The  aching  wastes  of  the  unknown 

Are  half  reclaimed  from  gloom, 
Since  on  life's  hospitable  sea 

All  souls  find  sailing-room. 

The  ocean  grows  a  weariness 

Witli  nothing  else  in  sight; 
Its  east  and  west,  its  north  and  south. 

Spread  out  from  morn  to  night : 
We  miss  the  warm,  caressing  shore. 

Its  brooding  shade  and  light. 
A  part  is  greater  than  the  whole; 

By  hints  are  mysteries  told ; 
The  fringes  of  eternity  — 

God's  sweeping  garment-fold. 
In  that  bright  shred  of  glimmering  sea, 

I  reach  out  for,  and  hold. 


430  A  STRIP   OF   BLUE. 


The  sails,  like  flakes  of  roseate  pearl, 

Float  in  upon  the  mist ; 
The  waves  are  broken  precious  stones  — 

Sapphire  and  amethyst. 
Washed  from  celestial  basement  walls, 

•  By  suns  unsetting  kissed. 
Out  through  the  utmost  gates  of  space. 

Past  where  the  gay  stars  drift, 
To  the  widening  Infinite,  my  soul 

Glides  on  a  vessel  swift ; 
Yet  loses  not  her  anchorage 

In  yonder  azure  rift. 

Here  sit  I,  as  a  little  child : 

The  threshold  of  God's  door 
Is  that  clear  band  of  chrysoprase ; 

Now  the  vast  temple  floor, 
The  blinding  glory  of  the  dome 

I  bow  my  head  before : 
The  universe,  O  God,  is  home, 

In  height  or  depth  to  me ; 
Yet  here  upon  thy  footstool  green 

Content  am  I  to  be ; 
Glad  when  is  opened  to  my  need 

Some  sea-like  glimpse  of  thee. 


SONG.  431 


if.  Jd,  Jiilnes 


WANDERED  by  the  bvook-side, 

I  Wiinrlered  by  the  mill,  — 
I  could  not  hear  the  brook  flow, 

The  noisy  wheel  was  still ; 
There  was  no  burr  of  grasshopper. 

Nor  cliirp  of  any  bird; 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

I  sat  beneath  the  elm-tree, 

I  watched  the  long,  long  shade, 
And  as  it  grew  still  longer 

I  did  not  feel  afraid ; 
For  I  listened  for  a  footflill, 

I  listened  for  a  word,  — 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

He  came  not,  —  no,  he  came  not ; 

The  night  came  on  alone  ; 
The  little  stars  sat  one  by  one 

Each  on  his  golden  throne ; 
The  evening  air  passed  by  my  cheek. 

The  leaves  above  were  stirred,  — 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 


432 


JOHN   BURNS   OF  GETTYSBURG. 


Fast  silent  tears  were  flowing, 

When  some  one  stood  behind ; 
A  hand  was  on  my  shoulder, 

I  knew  its  tonch  was  kind : 
It  drew  me  nearer,  nearer; 

We  did  not  speak  a  word,  — 
For  the  beating  of  our  own  hearts 

Was  all  the  sound  we  heard. 


^ret  Harte. 


AVE  you  heard  the  story  that  gossips  tell 
Of  Burns  at  Gettysburg?  —  No?     Ah,  well : 
Brief  is  the  glory  that  hero  earns. 
Briefer  the  story  of  poor  John  Burns : 
He  was  the  fellow  who  won  renown,  — 
The  only  man  who  didn't  back  down,  — 
When  the  rebels  rode  tlirough  his  native  town: 
But  held  his  own  in  the  fight  next  day. 
When  all  his  townsfolk  ran  away. 
That  was  in  July,  sixty-three, 
The  very  day  that  General  Lee, 
Flower  of  Southern  chivalry, 
Baffled  and  beaten,  backward  reeled 
From  a  stubborn  Meade  and  a  barren  field. 
I  might  tell  how,  but  the  day  before, 
John  Burns  stood  at  his  cottage-door, 


JOQN  BUKNS  OF  GETTYSBURG.         433 

Looking  down  the  village  street, 

Where,  in  the  shade  of  his  peaceful  vine 

He  heard  the  low  of  his  gathered  kine, 

And  felt  their  breath  with  incense  sweet ; 

Or  I  might  say,  when  the  sunset  burned 

The  old  farm  gable,  he  thought  it  turned 

The  milk  that  fell,  in  a  bubbling  flood 

Into  the  milk-pail,  red  as  blood ! 

Or  how  he  fancied  the  hum  of  bees 

Were  bullets  buzzing  among  the  trees. 

But  all  such  fanciful  thoughts  as  these 

Were  strange  to  a  practical  man  like  Burns, 

Who  minded  only  his  own  concerns. 

Troubled  no  more  by  fancies  fine 

Than  one  of  his  calm-eyed,  long-tailed  kine,— 

Quite  old-fashioned  and  matter-of-fact, 

Slow  to  argue,  but  quick  to  act. 

That  was  the  reason,  as  some  folks  say, 

He  fought  so  well  on  that  terrible  day. 

And  it  was  terrible.     On  the  right 
Raged  for  hours  the  heady  fight. 
Thundered  the  battery's  double  bass,  — 
Difficult  music  for  men  to  face  ; 
While  on  the  left  —  where  now  the  graves 
Undulate  like  the  living  waves 
That  all  that  day  unceasing  swept 
Up  to  the  pits  the  rebels  kept  — 
Round-shot  ploughed  the  upland  glades, 
Sown  with  bullets,  reaped  with  blades ; 


434         JOHN  BURNS  OF  GETTYSBURG. 

Shattered  fences  here  and  there 

Tossed  their  splinters  in  the  air ; 

The  very  trees  were  stripped  and  bare  ; 

The  barns  that  once  held  yellow  grain 

Were  heaped  with  harvests  of  the  slain  ; 

The  cattle  bellowed  on  the  plain, 

The  turkeys  screamed  with  might  and  main, 

And  brooding  barn-fowl  left  their  rest 

With  strange  shells  bursting  in  each  nest. 

Just  where  the  tide  of  battle  turns, 

Erect  and  lonely  stood  old  John  Burns. 

How  do  you  think  the  man  was  dressed  ? 

He  wore  an  ancient  long  buif  vest, 

Yellow  as  saffron  —  but  his  best; 

And,  buttoned  over  his  manly  breast, 

Was  a  bright  blue  coat,  with  a  rolling  collar. 

And  large  gilt  buttons,  —  size  of  a  dollar, — 

With  tails  that  the  country-folk  called  "  swaller." 

He  wore  a  broad-brimmed,  bell-crowned  hat, 

White  as  the  locks  on  which  it  sat. 

Never  had  such  a  sight  been  seen 

For  forty  years  on  the  village  green. 

Since  old  John  Burns  was  a  country  beau, 

And  went  to  the  "  quiltings  "  long  ago. 

Close  at  his  elbows  all  that  day. 
Veterans  of  the  Peninsula, 
Sunburnt  and  bearded,  charged  away ; 
And  striplings,  downy  of  lip  and  chin, — 
Clerks  that  the  Home  Guard  mustered  in, — 


JOHN  BURNS  OF  GETTYSBURG.  435 

Glanced,  as  they  passed,  at  the  hat  he  wore, 

Then  at  the  rifle  his  right  hand  bore ; 

And  hailed  him,  from  out  their  youthful  lore, 

With  scraps  cf  a  slangy  repertoire: 

"  How  are  you.  White  Hat?  "     "  Put  her  through," 

"  Your  head's  level,"  and  "  Bully  for  you!  " 

Called  him  "  Daddy,"  —  begged  he'd  disclose 

The  name  of  the  tailor  who  made  his  clothes. 

And  what  was  the  value  he  set  on  those; 

While  Burns,  unmindful  of  jeer  and  scoff. 

Stood  there  picking  the  rebels  off,  — 

With  his  long  brown  riflle,  and  bell-crown  hat, 

And  the  swallow-tails  they  were  laughing  at. 

'Twas  but  a  moment,  for  that  respect 

Which  clothes  all  courage  their  voices  checked, 

And  something  the  wildest  could  undei'stand 

Spake  in  the  old  man's  strong  right  hand ; 

And  his  corded  throat,  and  tlie  lurking  frown 

Of  his  eyebrows  under  his  old  bell-crown; 

Until,  as  they  gazed,  there  crept  an  awe 

Through  the  ranks  in  whispers,  and  some  men  saw 

In  the  antique  vestments  and  long  white  hair. 

The  Past  of  the  Nation  in  battle  there ; 

And  some  of  the  soldiers  since  declare 

That  the  gleam  of  his  old  white  hat  afiir. 

Like  the  crested  plume  of  the  brave  Navarre, 

That  day  was  their  oriflamme  of  war. 

So  i-aged  the  battle.     You  know  the  rest : 
How  the  rebels,  beaten,  and  backward  pressed. 


436  QUESTIONS   OF   THE   HOUR. 

Broke  at  the  final  charge  and  I'an. 
At  which  Jolin  Burns  —  a  practical  man  — 
Shouldered  his  rifle,  unbent  his  brows, 
And  then  went  back  to  his  bees  and  cows. 

That  is  the  story  of  old  John  Burns  : 

This  is  the  moral  the  reader  learns : 

In  fighting  the  battle,  the  question 's  whether 

You  'II  show  a  hat  that 's  white,  or  a  feather! 


• — NG^ — 

diesttoas  @f  tie  lour. 

Sarah  Jkf.  g.   (Piatt. 

O  angels  wear  white  dresses,  say? 

Alwaj's,  or  only  in  the  summer?     Do 
Their  birthdays  have  to  come  like  mine,  in  May? 

Do  they  have  scarlet  sashes  then,  or  blue? 

"When  little  Jessie  died  last  night. 
How  could  she  walk  to  Heaven  —  it  is  so  far? 

How  did  she  find  the  way  without  a  light? 
There  wasn't  even  any  moon  or  star. 


•'  Will  she  have  red  or  golden  wings? 

Then  will  she  have  to  be  a  bird  and  fly? 
Do  they  take  men  like  presidents  and  kings 

In  hearses  with  black  plumes  clear  to  the  sky? 


QUESTIONS   OF   THE   HOUR.  437 

"How  old  is  God?    Has  he  gray  hair? 

Can  he  see  yet?     Where  did  he  have  to  stay 
Before  —  you  know  —  he  had  made  —  Anywhere? 

Who  does  he  pray  *^o  —  when  he  has  to  pray? 

"  How  many  drops  are  in  the  sea? 

How  many  stars?  —  well,  then,  you  ought  to  know 
How  many  flowers  are  on  an  apple-tree? 

How  does  the  wind  look  when  it  doesn't  blow? 

"  Where  does  the  rainbow  end?     And  why 

Did  —  Captain  Kidd  —  bury  the  gold  there  ?     When 

Will  this  world  burn  ?     And  will  the  firemen  try 
To  put  the  fire  out  with  the  engines  then? 

"  If  you  should  ever  die,  may  we 

Have  pumpkins  growing  in  the  garden,  so 

INIy  fairy  godmother  can  come  for  me. 

When  there's  a  prince's  ball,  and  let  me  go? 

"  Read  Cinderella  just  once  more  — 

What  makes  —  men's  other  wives  —  so  mean?  "  I  knovf 
That  I  was  tired,  it  may  be  cross,  before 

I  shut  the  painted  book  for  her  to  go. 

Hours  later,  from  a  child's  white  bed 

I  heard  the  timid,  last  queer  question  stai't: 

"  Mamma,  are  you  —  my  stepmother?  "  it  said. 
The  innocent  reproof  crept  to  my  heart. 


438  THE   DOORSTEP. 


E.   C,   Btedmart, 
— »-"S?9e<— 

HE  conference  meeting  through  at  last. 

We  boys  around  the  vestry  Avaited 
To  see  the  girls  come  tripping  past 

Like  snow-birds  willing  to  be  mated, 

Not  braver  he  that  leaps  the  wall 

By  level  musket-flashes  litten, 
Than  I,  who  stepped  before  them  all 

Who  lonsed  to  see  me  get  the  mitten- 


But  no;  she  blushed  and  took  my  arm! 

We  let  the  old  folks  have  the  higliway. 
And  started  toward  the  INIaple  Farm 

Along  a  kind  of  lovers'  by-way. 

I  can't  remember  what  we  said, 

'Twas  notliing  worth  a  song  or  story; 

Yet  that  rude  path  by  which  we  sped 
Seemed  all  transformed  and  in  a  glory. 

The  snow  was  crisp  beneath  our  feet. 

The  moon  was  full,  the  fields  were  gleaming; 

By  hood  and  tippet  sheltered  sweet, 

Her  face  with  youth  and  health  was  beaming. 


THE   DOORSTEP.  439 


Her  little  hand  outside  her  muff,  — 
O  sculptor,  if  you  could  but  mould  it! 

So  lightly  touched  my  jacket-cuff. 
To  keej.  it  warm  I  had  to  hold  it. 

To  have  her  with  me  there  alone,  — 

'Twas  love  and  fear  and  triumph  blended. 

At  last  we  reached  the  foot-worn  stone 
Where  that  delicious  journey  ended. 

The  old  folks,  too,  were  almost  home ; 

Her  dimpled  hand  the  latches  fingered, 
We  heard  the  voices  nearer  come, 

Yet  on  the  doorstep  still  we  lingered. 

She  shook  her  ringlets  from  her  hood, 
And  with  a  "  Thank  you,  Ned,"  dissembled. 

But  yet  I  knew  she  understood 

With  what  a  daring  wish  I  trembled. 

A  cloud  passed  kindly  overhead. 

The  moon  was  slyly  peeping  through  it, 

Yet  hid  its  face,  as  if  it  said, 

"Come,  now  or  never!  do  it!  do  it!'^ 

My  lips  till  then  had  only  known 
The  kiss  of  mother  and  of  sister, 

But  somehow,  full  upon  her  own 

Sweet,  rosy,  darling  mouth,  —  I  kissed  her. 

Perhaps  'twas  boyish  love,  yet  still,  — 
O  listless  woman,  weary  lover !  — 

To  feel  once  more  that  fresh,  wild  thrill 
I'd  give  —  but  who  can  live  youth  over? 


440 


LARV^. 


Jkf?-s.  fi.  Q.   T.    Whitney. 

Y  little  maiden  of  four  years  old  — 
^     No  myth,  but  a  genuine  child  is  she, 
A^With  her  bronze-brown  eyes  and  her  curls  oi 
gold  — 
Came,  quite  in  disgust  one  day  to  me. 

Rubbing  her  shoulder  with  rosy  palm. 

As  the  loathsome  touch  seemed  yet  to  thrill  her, 
She  cried,  "  O  motlier!  I  found  on  my  arm 
A  horrible,  crawling  caterpillar!  " 

And  with  mischievous  smile  she  could  scarcely  smother, 
Yet  a  glance  in  its  daring  half  awed  and  shy. 

She  added,  "  While  they  were  about  it,  mother, 
I  wish  they'd  just  finish  the  butterfly!" 

They  were  words  to  the  thought  of  the  soul  that  tui'ns 
Fi'om  the  coarser  form  of  a  partial  growth. 

Reproaching  the  infinite  patience  that  yearns 
With  an  unknown  glory  to  crown  them  both. 

Ah,  look  thou  largely,  with  lenient  eyes. 

On  whatso  beside  thee  may  creep  and  cling, 

For  the  possible  glory  that  underlies 
The  passing  phase  of  the  meanest  thing! 

What  if  God's  great  angels,  whose  waiting  love 

Boholdeth  our  pitiful  life  below 
From  tile  holy  height  of  their  heaven  above, 

Couldn't  Ijear  with  the  worm  till  the  wings  should  grow? 


SPINNING.  441 


Helen  Fiske  Hunt 

IKE  a  blind  spinner  in  the  sun, 

I  tread  my  days  ; 
I  know  that  all  the  threads  will  run 

Appointed  ways  ; 
I  know  each  day  will  bring  its  task, 
And,  being  blind,  no  more  I  ask. 


I  do  not  know  the  use  or  name 

Of  that  I  spin ; 
I  only  know  that  some  one  came, 

And  laid  within 
My  hand  the  thread,  and  said,  "  Since  you 
Are  blind,  but  one  thing  you  can  do." 

Sometimes  the  threads  so  rough  and  fast 

And  tangled  fly, 
I  know  wild  storms  are  sweeping  past, 

And  fear  that  I 
Shall  fall ;  but  dare  not  try  to  find 
A  safer  place,  since  I  am  blind. 

I  know  not  why,  but  I  am  sure 

That  tint  and  place. 
In  some  great  fabric  to  endure 

Past  time  and  race, 
My  threads  will  have;  so  from  the  first; 
Though  blind,  I  never  felt  accurst. 


442  BABIE   BELL. 


I  think,  perhaps,  this  trust  lias  sprung 

From  one  short  word 
Said  over  me  when  I  was  young  — 

So  young  I  heard 
It,  knowing  not  that  God's  name  signed 
My  brow,  and  sealed  me  his,  though  blind. 

But  whether  this  be  seal  or  sign 

Within,  without, 
It  matters  not.     The  bond  divine 

I  never  doubt. 
I  know  Pie  set  me  here,  and  still. 
And  glad,  and  blind,  I  wait  His  will;  — 

But  listen,  listen,  day  by  day, 

To  hear  their  tread 
Who  bear  the  finished  web  away, 

And  cut  the  thread. 
And  bring  God's  message  in  the  sun : 
"  Thou  poor  blind  spinner,  work  is  done," 


— MJ@'^aE^@4N — 


►  *-3H 


AVE  you  not  heard  the  poets  tell 
How  came  the  dainty  Babie  Bell 

Into  this  world  of  ours? 
The  gates  of  heaven  were  left  ajar : 
With  folded  hands  and  dreamy  eyes. 
Wandering  out  of  Paradise, 
She  saw  this  planet,  like  a  star, 


BABIE   BELL.  443 


Hung  in  the  glistening  depths  of  even,  — 
Its  bridges,  running  to  and  fro. 
O'er  which  the  white-winged  Angels  go, 

Bearing  the  holy  Dead  to  heaven. 
She  touched  a  bridge  of  flowers,  —  those  feet 
So  light,  they  did  not  bend  the  bells 
Of  the  celestial  asphodels! 
They  fell  like  dew  upon  the  flowers, 
Then  all  the  air  grew  strangely  sweet! 
And  thus  came  dainty  Babie  Bell 

Into  this  world  of  ours. 


She  came  and  brought  delicious  May, 

The  swallows  built  beneath  the  eaves ; 
Like  sunlight  in  and  out  the  leaves, 

The  robins  went  the  livelong  day ; 

The  lily  swung  its  noiselsss  bell, 

And  o'er  the  porch  the  trembling  vine 
Seemed  bursting  with  its  veins  of  wine. 

How  sweetly,  softly,  twilight  fell! 

O,  earth  was  full  of  singing-birds, 

And  opening  spring-tide  flowers. 

When  tiie  dainty  Babie  Bell 
Came  to  this  world  of  ours! 


O  Babie,  dainty  Babie  Bell, 
How  fair  she  grew  from  day  to  day! 

What  woman-nature  filled  her  eyes. 
What  poetry  within  tliem  la}'^ : 

Those  deep  and  tender  twilight  eyes, 


444 


BABIE  BELL. 


So  full  of  meaning,  pure  and  bright 
As  if  she  yet  stood  in  the  light 
Of  those  oped  gates  of  Paradise, 
And  so  we  loved  her  more  and  more : 
Ah,  never  in  our  hearts  before 

Was  love  so  lovely  Ijorn : 
We  felt  we  had  a  link  between 
This  real  world  and  that  unseen,  — 

The  land  beyond  the  morn. 
And  for  the  love  of  those  dear  eyes. 
For  love  of  her  whom  God  led  forth, 
(The  mother's  being  ceased  on  earth 
When  Babie  came  from  Paradise,)  — 
For  love  of  Him  who  smote  our  lives, 

And  woke  the  chords  of  joy  and  pain, 
We  said.  Dear  Christ.'  — Our  hearts  bent  down 
Like  violets  after  rain. 


And  now  the  orchards,  which  were  white 
And  red  with  blossoms  when  she  came, 
Were  rich  in  autumn's  mellow  prime; 

The  clustered  apples  burnt  like  flame. 
The  soft-cheeked  peaches  blushed  and  fell, 
The  ivory  chestnut  burst  its  shell 
The  grapes  hung  purpling  in  the  grange : 
And  time  wrought  just  as  rich  a  change 

In  little  Babie  Bell. 
Her  lissome  form  more  perfect  grew, 
And  in  her  features  we  could  trace. 
In  softened  curves,  her  mother's  face! 
Her  angel-nature  ripened  too. 


BABIE   BELL.  445 


We  thought  her  lovely  when  she  came. 
But  she  was  holy,  saintly  now  .  .  . 
Around  her  pale  angelic  brow 

We  saw  a  slender  rina:  of  flame ! 


God's  hand  had  taken  away  the  seal 
That  held  the  portals  of  her  speech; 

And  oft  she  said  a  few  sti'ange  words 
Whose  meaning  lay  beyond  our  reach.  . 

She  never  was  a  child  to  us, 

We  never  held  her  being's  key; 

We  could  not  teach  her  holy  things : 

She  was  Christ's  self  in  purity. 


It  came  upon  us  by  degrees : 

We  saw  its  shadow  ere  it  fell. 

The  knowledge  that  our  God  had  sent 

His  messenger  for  Babie  Bell. 

We  shuddered  with  unlangnaged  pain, 

And  all  our  hopes  were  changed  to  fears. 

And  all  our  thoughts  ran  into  tears 

Like  sunshine  into  rain. 

We  cried  aloud  in  our  belief, 

"O,  smite  us  gently,  gently,  God! 

Teach  us  to  bend  and  kiss  the  rod. 

And  perfect  grow  through  grief." 

Ah,  how  we  loved  her,  God  can  tell; 

Her  heart  was  folded  deep  in  ours. 

Our  hearts  are  broken,  Babie  Bell! 


446  BUST  OF   DANTE. 


At  last  he  came,  the  messenger. 

The  messenger  from  unseen  lands: 
And  what  did  dainty  Babie  Bell? 

She  only  crossed  her  little  hands, 
She  only  looked  more  meek  and  fair! 
We  parted  back  her  silken  hair : 
We  wove  the  roses  round  her  brow, 
White  buds,  the  summer's  drifted  snow, 
Wrapt  her  from  head  to  feet  in  flowers! 
And  thus  went  dainty  Babie  Bell 
Out  of  this  world  of  ours ! 

!^:a^ — - 


1'homas   W.   (Parsons, 

EE,  from  this  counterfeit  of  him 
Whom  Arno  shall  remember  long. 
How  stern  of  lineament,  how  grim, 
The  father  was  of  Tuscan  song. 
There  but  the  burning  sense  of  wrong, 
Perpetual  care  and  scorn,  abide; 
Small  friendship  for  the  lordly  throng; 
Distrust  of  all  the  world  beside. 

Faithful  if  this  wan  image  be, 
No  dream  his  life  was  — but  a  fight. 
Could  .any  Beatrice  see 
A  lover  in  that  anchorite? 


BUST    OF    DANTE.  447 


To  that  cold  Grhibeline's  gloomy  sight 
Who  could  have  guessed  the  visions  came 
Of  Beauty,  veiled  with  heavenly  light, 
In  circles  of  eternal  flame  ? 

The  lips  as  Cumae's  cavern  close, 
The  cheeks  with  fast  and  sorrow  thin, 
The  rigid  front,  almost  morose. 
But  for  the  patient  hope  within. 
Declare  a  life  whose  course  hath  been 
Unsullied  still,  though  still  severe, 
Which,  through  the  wavering  days  of  sin, 
Kept  itself  icy-chaste  and  clear. 

Not  wholly  such  his  haggard  look 
When  wandering  once,  forlorn,  he  strayed. 
With  no  companion  save  his  book. 
To  Corvo's  hushed  monastic  shade ; 
Where,  as  the  Benedictine  laid 
His  palm  upon  the  pilgrim  guest. 
The  single  boon  for  which  he  prayed 
The  convent's  charity  was  rest. 

Peace  dwells  not  here — this  rugged  face 
Betrays  no  spirit  of  repose  ; 
The  sullen  warrior  sole  we  trace, 
The  marble  man  of  many  woes. 
Such  was  his  mien  when  first  arose 
The  thought  of  that  strange  tale  divine, 
When  hell  he  peopled  with  his  foes. 
The  scourge  of  many  a  guilty  line. 


448  BUST   OF   DANTE. 


War  to  the  last  he  waged  with  all 
The  tyiant  canker-worms  of  earth ; 
Baron  and  duke,  in  hold  and  hall, 
Cursed  the  dark  hour  that  gave  him  birth; 
He  used  Rome's  harlot  for  his  mirth; 
Plucked  bare  hypocrisy  and  crime ; 
But  valiant  souls  of  kniglitly  worth 
Transmitted  to  the  rolls  of  Time. 

O  Time!  whose  verdicts  mock  our  owr^ 
The  only  righteous  judge  art  thou ; 
That  poor  old  exile,  sad  and  lone, 
Is  Latium's  other  Virgil  now : 
Before  his  name  the  nations  bow ; 
His  words  are  parcel  of  mankind, 
Deep  in  whose  hearts,  as  on  his  brow, 
The  marks  have  sunk  of  Dante's  mind. 


mrrEX  TO  FIRST  LWES. 


A.  Page 

Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky 43 

An  ardent  spirit  dwells  with  Christian  love 59 

A  night  had  passed  away  among  the  hills 87 

Away  and  away,  o'er  the  deep  sounding  tide 103 

A  ruined  city  !    In  the  heart 109 

A  rock  there  is  whose  homely  front 126 

Art  thou  the  same  mysterious  traveller 135 

A  life  of  struggle,  grief,  and  pain 137 

All  day  long,  with  a  vacant  stare 151 

Another  little  wave  upon  the  sea  of  life 169 

As  twilight  fades  upon  the  west 170 

Awake  thy  cloud-harp,  angel  of  the  rain  ! 186 

All  in  a  moment,  through  the  gloom  were  seen 193 

And  thou  remembered  Sagamore 194 

Admiring  Nature  in  her  wildest  grace ,    .    .    .  195 

As  angels  sport  amid  the  stars , 221 

A  mighty  and  a  mingled  throng 225 

A  father  sat  by  the  chimney-post 233 

As  some  fair  violet,  loveliest  of  the  glade 238 

All  night  the  booming  minute-gun 246 

Among  the  joys,  't  is  one  at  eve  to  sail 266 

A  little  rose  bloomed  in  the  way 280 

An  easy  task  it  is  to  tread 286 

A  f  reedome  is  a  nobill  thing 325 

And  thou  hast  stolen  a   jewel,  Death  ! 352 

A  soldier  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers 371 

Among  the  beautiful  pictures 383 

AbouBenAdhem  —  may  his  tribe  increase ,  394 

A  fragment  of  a  rainbow  bright 398 

449 


450  INDEX    TO   FIRST    LINES. 


B. 

But  wherefore  da  you  droop  ?  why  look  you  sad  ? 61 

Bring  flowers,  young  flowers,  for  the  festal  board 121 

"' Bring  forth  the  horse  ! '    The  horse  was  brought 256 

Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead  ! 379 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight 380 

Break,  break,  break 405 

Before  the  stout  harvesters  f alleth  the  grain 416 

c. 

Comit  not  thy  life  by  calendars  ;  for  years 68 

Call  it  not  vain  ;  they  do  not  err 291 

Could  ye  come  back  to  me,  Douglas,  Douglas 402 

D. 

Domestic  love  !  not  in  proud  palace  halls 29 

Down  to  the  vale  this  water  steers 78 

Disasters  come  not  singly 261 

Do  not  crouch  to-day,  and  worship 386 

Do  angels  wear  white  dresses,  say  ? „ 436 

E. 

Electric  essence  permeates  the  air 289 

F. 

Fleetly  hath  passed  the  year  ;  the  seasons  came 37 

Found  dead  !  dead  and  alone 65 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony 101 

Faintly  as  tolls  the  evening  chime 108 

Freshly  the  cool  breath  of  the  coming  eve 113 

Father  of  Light,  great  God  of  Heaven 146 

Fame,  wisdom,  love,  and  power  were  mine 206 

Fly  fro  the  prcsse,  and  dwell  with  sothfastnesse 324 

Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree 3L'8 

Friends  of  faces  unknown,  and  a  land 399 

Fair  datlodils,  we  weep  to  see 419 

G. 

Jod  bless  the  little  feet  that  never  go  astray    .........  90 

fiod  bless  our  father  land ,    .  271 


INDEX    TO    FIRST    LINES.  451 


IT. 

How  beautiful  is  night 42 

Heaven  opened  wide  lier  ever -during  gates 71 

Here's  to  the  Hero  of  vioultrie 132 

His  words  seemed  oracles ITl 

How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  hank 290 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells 388 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain 392 

Have  you  heard  the  story  that  gossips  tell 432 

Have  you  not  heard  the  poets  tell 412 

I. 

In  what  rich  harmony,  what  polished  lays 22 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 28 

I  walked  with  him  one  melancholy  night 40 

I  love  my  God,  my  country,  kind,  and  kin 62 

I  had  a  dream,  which  was  not  all  a  dream 73 

I  came,  but  she  was  gone 79 

It  is  sad  to  see  the  light  of  beauty  wane  away 86 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty 123 

In  the  west,  the  weary  day 148 

In  the  little  southern  parlor  of  the  house  you  may  have  seen  ...  166 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee 183 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 184 

I '11  woo  thee,  world,  again 187 

It  fades  !  it  shifts  !  and  appears 190 

I  saw  her  in  the  festive  halls 202 

I  saw  a  pale  young  orphan  hoy 215 

If  thou  hast  ever  felt  that  all  on  earth 216 

I  stand  on  the  brink  of  a  river 226 

T  am  not  —  I  cannot  be  old • 231 

I  love  thy  singing,  sacred  as  the  sound  of  hymns 258 

In  the  quarries  should  you  toil 259 

I  saw  her  when  life's  tide  was  high 260 

I  have  tasted  each  varied  pleasure 262 

I  hold  that  Christian  grace  abounds 279 

I  said  to  Time,  "  This  venerable  pile ••••••  281 

If  the  road  grow  dark  before  you  reach 297 

I  remember,  I  remember,  the  house  where  I  was  born  ......  S03 

It  was  the  autumn  of  the  year  .    > 306 

I  saw  a  little  girl 312 

I  heard  a  gentle  maiden,  in  the  spring 319 

1  loved  him  not ;  and  yet,  now  he  is  gone 336 

I've 'wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west    .    ..........338 


452  INDEX    TO    FIRST    LINES. 


I  too  am  changed  —  I  scarce  know  why ^    .  343 

I  know  not  that  the  men  of  old 349 

I  leaned  out  of  window,  I  smelt  the  white  clover 375 

It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus 41;^ 

Into  the  sunshine ,,  420 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 422 

I  do  not  own  an  inch  of  land 428 

I  wandered  by  the  brook-side 431 

J. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John ....,  326 

K. 

Knowledge  and  wisdom,  far  from  being  ona 124 

L. 

Look  Nature  through, 'tis  revolution  all 64 

Like  a  gale  that  sighs  along 178 

Let  Fate  do  her  worst ;  there  are  relics  of  joy 214 

Lost !  lost !  lost !  a  gem  of  countless  price 245 

Love  is  too  great  a  happiness , 33c 

Launch  thy  bark,  mariner 33I 

Little  thinks  in  the  field,  yon  red-cloaked  clown 384 

Life,  we  've  been  long  together 422 

Like  a  blind  spinner  in  the  sun 44] 

M. 

Man  hath  a  weary  pilgrimage    .....,,,,,..,,,  23 

Minutely  trace  man's  life 39 

My  loved,  my  honored,  much  respected  friend 91 

Man  knows  not  love  —  such  love  as  woman  feels 138 

My  gun  shines  in  the  misty  air 229 

Maud  Muller  on  a  summer's  day ,.,,.  240 

Men  of  thought !  be  up,  and  stirring ,  350 

Mother  of  our  own  dear  mother 354 

My  friend,  thou  sorrowest  for  thy  golden  prime    ........  408 

My  little  maiden  of  four  years  old ...«•••.  440 

N. 

Now  came  still  evening  on,  and  Twilight  gray  ..•.••.••  27 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note 38 

Not  far  advanced  was  morning  day 81 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled     .......  159 

Not  where  the  chimes  of  tlie  Sabbath  bell *  268 


INDEX    TO    FIRST    LINKS.  458 


Ko  specious  splendor  of  this  stone 270 

No  bird-song  floated  dowu  tlie  hill 316 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea 395 

Nothing  resting  iu  its  own  completeness 407 

o. 

O  Thou  unknown,  Almighty  Cause 44 

One  year  ago  —  a  ringing  voice ,  66 

O  Nature  !  all  thy  seasons  please  the  eye IIC 

Over  the  river  they  beckon  to  me 128 

One  heart's  enough  for  me ,  134 

One  more  unfortunate 139 

O  saw  ye  not  fair  Ines? 162 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary 172 

O  the  long  and  dreary  Winter 196 

O  that  the  chemist's  magic  art 207 

O  not  by  graves  should  tears  be  shed 212 

Our  life  is  comely  as  a  whole 239 

O  thou  vast  Ocean  !  ever-sounding  Sea ! 338 

Oh  !  why  left  I  my  hame  ? 342 

O  ^iNIary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home .,..,.,.  411 

P. 

Press  on  !  surmount  the  rocky  steeps    ....«•••••.>  60 

R. 

Ring,  joyous  chords  !  —  ring  out  again 57 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky 403 

s. 

Sweet  Auburn  !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain 25 

See !  how  he  strives  to  rescue  from  the  flood 60 

Stately  yon  vessel  sails  adown  the  tide 77 

Speak  gently  ;  in  this  world  of  ours „.  85 

Somewhat  back  from  the  village  street Ill 

Stern  land  !  we  love  thy  woods  and  rocks 191 

Such  let  me  seem  till  such  I  be 204 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 244 

She  twirled  the  string  of  golden  beads 293 

Che  blossomed  in  the  country 299 

She  comes  with  fairy  footsteps 320 

Swk.2t  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright -  329 

Sweet  Peace,  where  dost  thou  dwell  ? 332 


454  IXDEX    TO    FIRST    LIXES. 


Speak  !  speak  !  thou  fearful  guest ! 357 

Strive  ;  yet  I  do  not  promise 404 

See,  from  this  counterfeit  of  him 446 


T. 

The  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  tops 20 

The  gayest  hours  trip  lightly  by =  21 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day 30 

The  tear  down  Childhood's  cheek  that  flows c  36 

The  groves  were  God's  first  temples 38 

To  give  a  cup  of  water  :  yet  its  draught 41 

The  violet  loves  a  sunny  bank TO 

Tell  me,  thou  star,  whose  wings  of  light 84 

To  be,  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the  question 98 

There  are  in  this  rude  stunning  tide 99 

The  trumpet's  voice  hath  roused  the  land 100 

This  ancient  silver  bowl  of  mine   .    .    .    , 104 

The  chestnuts  shine  through  the  cloven  rind 107 

These,  as  they  change,  Almighty  Father,  these 119 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods 122 

Two  hundred  years  !— two  hundred  years 133 

The  poet  dreamt  of  Heaven 143 

The  pathway  of  the  sinking  moon 144 

The  soul,  secure  in  her  existence,  smiles 145 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean 150 

The  lught  wind  with  a  desolate  moan  swept  by 153 

'T  is  summer  eve,  when  heaven's  ethereal  bow 157 

There,  through  the  long,  long  summer  hours 158 

They  grew  in  beauty  side  by  side 164 

The  spark  of  life  is  like  a  spark  of  fire 105 

The  melancholy  days  are  come 188 

'T  was  a  sunnnery  day  in  the  last  of  May .192 

There  is  a  little  mystic  clock     .    . 208 

There  's  not  a  cheaper  thing  on  eart'u 213 

The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 223 

There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses 228 

'T  is  well  to  woo, 'tis  well  to  wed 234 

There  are  moments  in  life  that  are  never  forgot 235 

Three  pairs  of  dimpled  arms,  as  white  as  snow 237 

Then  came  the  mad  retreat ;  the  whirlwind  snows 248 

The  shadows  lay  along  Broadway 252 

'T  is  early  davra  —  and  all  around 254 

The  breeze  blew  fair,  the  waving  sea 263 

The  world,  dear  John,  as  ^'-^  old  folks  told  us 265 

True  happiness  had  no  loo-  '•♦ies 269 


INDEX   TO   FIRST   LINES.  455 


T is  not  for  man  to  trifle  ;  life  is  brief 272 

There  is  in  life  no  blessing  like  affection 278 

'T  was  in  the  summer  time  so  sweet 282 

There  's  a  little  low  hut  by  the  river  side 287 

Thou  has :  been  where  the  rocks  of  coral  grow 295 

The  ports  of  death  are  sins  ;  of  life,  good  deeds 298 

'T  was  a  sunny  day,  and  the  morning  psalm <  300 

The  soul  of  music  slumbers  in  the  shell ,  304 

The  old  year  is  passing  away,  Maud ,  305 

There  is  no  charm  in  time 308 

The  feast  is  o'er  !    Now  brimming  wine 309 

The  bell  strikes  one  ;  we  take  no  note  of  time   • 311 

The  old  man  sat  by  the  chimney  side 313 

'T  is  past:  the  ii  on  North  has  spent  his  rage 315 

There  was  a  feast  that  night 318 

There  breathes  no  being  but  has  some  pretence 322 

There  all  the  happy  souls  that  ever  were 327 

There  is  a  land,  of  every  land  the  pride 337 

Then  outspake  brave  Horatius 345 

The  bonnie,  bonnie  bairn,  sits  pokin'  in  the  ase 347 

To  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear 378 

Two  hands  upon  the  breast 410 

The  warm  sun  is  failing 418 

The  time  for  toil  has  passed,  .and  night  has  come 424 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl  which,  poets  feign 425 

The  muse  disgusted  at  an  age  and  clime 427 

The  conference-meeting  through  at  last 438 

u. 

Upon  that  night  when  fairies  light 45 

Upon  thy  pictured  lineaments  I  looked 185 

w. 

^liere  art  thou,  Muse,  that  thou  forget'st  so  long    .......  17 

When  I  am  old  —  and  O  how  soon ,  55 

We  love  the  well-beloved  place 6S 

Who  are  the  nobles  of  the  earth 76 

We  watched  her  breathing  through  the  night 89 

When  nay  last  sunset  is  under  a  cloud 131 

We  were  crowded  in  the  cabin 149 

Wouldst  thou  live  long  ?    The  only  means  are  these 161 

Walk  with  the  Beautiful  and  with  the  Grand 168 

When  all  the  fiercer  passions  cease ,,...  179 

What  is  the  bigot's  torch,  the  tyrant's  chain     ......c..  205 


456  INDEX    TO    FIRST    LINES. 


Wben  gentle  Twilight  sits     .........,.«,,,„  2M 

When  Life  his  lusty  course  began      ....         e  218 

We  do  not  make  our  thoughts  ;  they  grow  in  uf    .    .    ...    ,        ,  224 

We  call  it  hallowed  ground ,.,.,..  236 

When  chill  November's  surly  blast ,.  24y 

We  live  in  deeds,  not  years 253 

Why  do  I  weep  ?  to  leave  the  vine c...  284 

W^hen  from  the  sacred  garden  driven ,    .    ,  302 

What  would  I  have  you  do ?    I'll  tell  you,  kinsman  .    .    .    .    c    ,    .  323 

When  Britain  first  at  Heaven's  command 334 

We  met  —  't  was  in  a  crowd 344 

When  a  deed  is  done  for  Freedom 363 

When  the  radiant  morn  of  creation  broke -    .    ,    .  369 

When  God  at  first  made  man 406 

Without  haste  !  without  rest , 423 

Y. 

Young  bride,  —  a  wreath  for  thee .120 

Yet  one  smile  more,  departing,  distant  sun 125 

Yet  sometimes,  in  the  gay  and  noisy  street 130 

You  must  wake  and  call  me  early •.,,.<...  273 

You  see  the  slender  spire  that  peers 285 

Youth  that  pursuest  with  such  eager  pace G82 

You  are  old.  Father  William,  the  youDg  man  cried   ....         .         .  'HI 


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